


get busy living (or get busy dying).

by bellmare



Series: Tales from the Underground. [1]
Category: Subarashiki Kono Sekai | The World Ends With You, ヒプノシスマイク | Hypnosis Mic (Albums)
Genre: Alternate Universe - The World Ends With You, Family, Friendship, Gen, M/M, NaNoWriMo 2018, Subtext
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-08-17 15:27:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 44,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16519100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellmare/pseuds/bellmare
Summary: Some people say the Reapers' Game is fair -- a fair shot at a second chance at life, a fair shot to address past regrets.





	1. PROLOGUE - calling (the proxy remix)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On beginnings, and the restless ghosts of the past.

He does not believe in ghosts.

At least, that's what Jakurai tells himself. Ghosts are too far out of the realm of his life, irrational flights of fancy that have no place amongst the neat strictures of order and logic and reasoning. Medicine and the human body, he knows; medicine and the human body, he understands -- the way skin and muscle knit together after an injury; the way lamellar bone builds itself into neat, orderly sheets; the way the sympathetic nervous system drives a body into a fight-or-flight response. 

Unfortunately, nothing he knows prepares him for ghosts. Or, well, _the_ ghost. There was only ever one. 

Well, he hopes so, at least. It's been ten years; ten years since he's been a resident and five years, give or take a few, since ... well. Jakurai stares down at his hands, fingers loosely splayed over the steering wheel. The air in his car is too cool; it smells faintly mechanical, of plastic and the fabric softener he uses. He turns the air conditioning down, just a touch.

Over the radio, the station host announces the next song -- a title he doesn't recognise. He hasn't kept up with the music scene for years; always been too busy, always been too preoccupied. So much so, it seems, that time completely flew away from him while he wasn't paying attention. Discomfited, Jakurai leans back against the headrest, listening. Has that much time really come to pass? Since he stepped away from his previous area of specialisation, since the ghosts first started appearing? 

It doesn't feel like it's been all that long. 

Lost in thought, he runs the edge of his thumbnail against the steering wheel, and half considers opening his windows. The air outside is crisp and cool this time of the year, a prelude to winter and the promise of snow. When Jakurai turns his head, his hair tugs and catches against the scarf he's wound around his neck. Beyond the window, the crowds of Roppongi pass by the stationary traffic, a tide of people that ebbs and flows with the pedestrian signals. Just past the sea of faces, Jakurai thinks he can see something familiar.

Distantly, he feels a weight drop down his throat and settle into the pit of his stomach. He never used to see the ghost nearly as much as he does now. Is it an omen? A sign of his impending death, or something equally grim and morbid?

Jakurai averts his eyes from the figure perched atop a row of unoccupied bicycle racks. Slight-framed, hair a shock of dyed pink against the concrete of surrounding buildings, body language too loose, too casual. On the wall behind him is emblazoned a graffitied decal -- a stylised skull, all sharp lines and angular edges. Flanking the skull, jagged wings erupt from either side, the edges sharp as knives. The figure lounges on the bike rack seemingly without a care in the world, one leg drawn up to his chest, the other hanging down, ankle aimlessly bumping against the painted steel pole; a large and ornate buckle swings at the end of his belt, clanging against the railing.

As though sensing Jakurai's scrutiny, the figure half-turns, glancing over his shoulder. He catches Jakurai's eye and winks, making a jaunty sort of motion with thumb and forefinger. The shape of a gun. He flicks his thumb, as though flipping a safety catch.  _Bang_ , he mouths. On the other side of the street, a flock of pigeons take off in a flurry of grey and white. 

Trapped in traffic, Jakurai looks away from the figure on the bicycle racks, glancing towards the startled birds circling into the air. Order and logic and reasoning all dictate that it's a coincidence; that the birds were perhaps just startled by an overenthusiastic child or curious dog running too close. There's another part of his mind -- smaller, more insidious, the primate brain coded to fear the unknown -- that thinks, irrationally, about ghosts and animals. Something about animals, and how they can see things that humans can't. Something about animals, attuned to things humans aren't, in the way that dogs howl before an earthquake, and birds fly low in the air before a thunderstorm. 

The car behind him honks, and Jakurai tightens his grip on the steering wheel -- as though he can try and grasp reality itself, and reassure himself that he's still firmly grounded in it. The cars around him lurch ponderously into movement, then stop again as the lights change. When he glances back at the bicycle racks, there's nobody there. The graffitied skull seems to stare back at him, an image searing itself into his brain.

.

He never used to see ghosts. 

It starts the year he turns thirty, but he can trace the source to long before that. The root and the cause all go back to when he's twenty-five and fresh into his residency, still with ideals and visions of changing the world, bit by bit. Ideals of helping everyone he can, one at a time. Well, that much hasn't changed, though he's slightly more realistic now, slightly more rational about just what he wants to achieve, and just how much he, as one man, can. 

During one of his rotations, there is a boy. Amemura Ramuda can't have been more than fourteen years old. Jakurai remembers him -- his bleached and dyed hair, outrageously bright and almost offensively loud amidst the sterile white hallways and blue scrubs of the hospital; he had smudges on his hands and fingers from graphite and charcoal, testament to hours spent scribbling designs and drafts on sketchbooks to pass the long hours. He always talked too loudly and laughed too boldly, endearing himself to nurses and orderlies alike as they came to check up on him or measure his vitals. 

Jakurai remembers passing by his door, listening to the sound of a careless -- and carefree -- laugh pitched too high as Amemura charms and wheedles staff with easy boyish charisma. _Onee-san_  this and _onee-san_ that, it really was no wonder the younger nurses blushed and laughed at his attempts to flirt with them, and the older ones fretted over him getting too thin as they pinched his cheeks fondly and occasionally snuck him treats when the doctors on duty weren't looking. Jakurai doesn't blame them -- a child in a terminal ward is a difficult sight to bear witness to; especially one old enough to be cognizant of what's happening to him, especially one old enough to already know about mortality, and what it means to die. 

That's the only reason Jakurai doesn't say anything to his supervisors and seniors. That's the only reason he averts his eyes when he spots nurses bringing Amemura contraband treats, the odd lollipops or candies they slip into his hands with a whisper and a smile. They always hasten to leave after that -- Jakurai supposes it's a confronting sight, even if Amemura puts great pains into acting like everything is perfectly normal.

Once everybody is gone, though, the facade always drops. Amemura quietens and stills, turning his attention to staring listlessly out of the window or flicking through channels on the TV. Sometimes, he just draws -- pages and pages of figure studies and pattern drafts. Jakurai once makes the mistake about asking about dreams, and the future. It's a mistake he's learnt never to make again.

"I wanted to be a fashion designer," Amemura says, resting his chin on his knuckles. The bones of his wrists stand out sharply, the veins a pale roadmap against his skin. Jakurai frowns a little at the past tense as he looks the boy up and down. Amemura looks the part of a fashion-conscious teenager, all right -- painfully stylish even when he'd first been admitted, he sticks out in the quiet white corridors like a garishly loud sore thumb, bandaged in brightly-coloured plaster and dressings. Even now, pale and faded and all but swallowed up by the hospital scrubs, he still insisted on dyeing his hair. The last time Jakurai saw him, his hair was a vibrant mixture of greens and blues; like the summer sea Jakurai liked to go fishing in, back when he had more free time. The last time Jakurai saw him, his roots were growing out, dark against the artificial turquoise. This week it's pink, bright as cotton-candy. It's a colour Amemura has always defaulted to, eventually.

"A fashion designer," Jakurai repeats. "That's an interesting career choice."

Amemura rolls his knuckles slowly against the side of his jaw. "What, you expected me to say something else? Like, I'd wanna be something perfectly _boring_ and  _normal_ like an engineer? A lawyer?" He pauses, watching Jakurai through lowered lashes. "A doctor?"

Jakurai laughs despite himself. "Yes, something of the sort."

The boy makes a rude noise. "Pfft, no, what am I, _boring_? I have things to do and places to be, and I'm not wasting the best years of my life studying for all that heavy stuff." He pauses; his next words are softer, so quiet that Jakurai almost can't hear him. "I always thought like that until I ended up here." Then, he raises his voice again, filled with too much false cheer. "Buuuuut nope! So, I thought, hey, maybe I can make people forget about their current worries and stuff by making them look good, you know?" 

No, Jakurai does not know, and indeed he says as much. Amemura gives him a rather lofty and patronising look and says, "I know." He waggles a finger, smug in all his fourteen-year-old superiority. "Everyone likes retail therapy," he says, too loud, too chirpy. And then, voice dropping to a lower register Jakurai has never heard before, he adds, "everyone likes to be buried looking their best."

"I suppose so," Jakurai says at last, at a loss. The boy smirks at his discomfiture. "Well, but it's true. That's what people always say, y'know?" He raises a hand, ticking off the points on each finger. "I wanna die young, I wanna die pretty. I wanna be remembered well. Is it really that hard a concept to grasp? And is it really that bad?"

It's the next question, Jakurai feels, that changes everything. "And what about you?" he asks, without any of his customary care and delicacy. He's shocked at the way the words force themselves out, so bluntly and without preamble. "Do you really think that way as well?"

Amemura glances over at him. "We're all gonna die, aren't we? Well, for some, our number just comes up a little earlier than others." He digs his hand into his hair, twisting cotton-candy strands around his fingers. Jakurai recognises it now as a small act of defiance, a minor vanity in the face of what seemed like nothing but inevitability. "And me, well, I guess I'm well on my way there." Amemura turns his head slowly, meeting Jakurai's eyes. "You never know when it'll happen, right? I guess I'm lucky in that regard, I get to see it coming -- and when it does, I intend on going out looking damn good. I'm gonna look my best, no matter what everyone says."

"Have you given up?" Jakurai asks, even though he isn't sure if he wants to hear the answer.

The boy laughs, loud and manic in the silence, over the ambient hum of air-conditioning and hospital machinery. "Kiiiinda, yeah," he says, singsong. 

Perhaps that is where Jakurai makes his first mistake. His lecturers and seniors and supervisors had always told him, don't make promises he can't keep. Don't give patients hope with false assurances. "You shouldn't," he says, surprising even himself at his own forcefulness. "Not yet. Not now. You're young and strong and fit -- your chances of recovery are high."

Amemura spreads his hands, palms upturned. "Being young and strong and fit got me nowhere ... except in here. _So sowwy_ if I can't help my scepticism, Mr. Resident!"

"Moreover, there are plenty of treatments in development. Rest assured, Amemura-kun, you're in good hands -- the best in the country."

"There always are. Medicines and treatments in development, I mean." Amemura smiles, a crooked and lopsided thing. "And no offence, but how much can you do, Mr. Resident? What can you do with just those two hands of yours?"

"Maybe not me, myself," Jakurai concedes. "I can't change everything by myself."

Amemura wiggles a finger. "You know, I've heard about you ... Jinguji Jakurai, medical prodigy who's written aaaall sorts of cool and insightful and difficult papers about rare diseases. Jinguji Jakurai, who got placements into all the top hospitals in the country, who's said to be a rising star in the field, who's got a bright future ahead of him. Jinguji Jakurai, whose graduate dissertations won him all sorts of critical acclaim and awards, who's said to be the youngest medical resident in the country ... say, Mr. Resident. Could it be ... that they were talking about ... you? Should I be flattered that such a celebrity is talking to me? Oh!" He touches his fingertips to his lower lip, eyes rounding in shock. "Could you give me your autograph, maybe? I promise not to auction it off or anything!"

Jakurai doesn't look away, but he's suddenly aware of the way his hair drapes just over his shoulder, obscuring his name badge. "There are a lot of brilliant names, far greater than my own, who have all working in this field for years and dedicating their lives to it. Science and technology progress all the time, it won't be long--"

"But not fast enough." Amemura's voice is a cold snap, all traces of faux awe dissipating. "It won't be long, huh? That's what they've been telling me for years, and _sooo_ sorry for being a _juuust_ a little bit selfish, but I'm tired of waiting and fighting and staying strong, whatever crap everyone tells me I should keep doing. Just who am I living for now, huh? It sure isn't for myself, when I can't even do what I want, when I want."  He gestures at the humming machines around him, at the tubes and lines and wires. "Me, I'm stuck here all day, and I can't even say no, I've had enough, because that's _mean_ , and _nasty_ , and _selfish_ , and I should think of other people, too. How _terribly awful_ it would be for my parents to have to bury their child. How _absolutely horrible_ it would be, to leave a me-shaped hole in the lives of my friends and everyone around me. And what about me? Nope, no way, nuh-uh, it's always, I gotta do my best, I gotta keep going, I gotta do this, and I gotta do that."

"Amemura-kun."

"Hey, you're a doctor, aren't you? And doctors are supposed to be really smart, right? So tell me something, Mr. Prodigy Resident." Amemura reaches out, tugging at the sleeve of Jakurai's coat. He walks his fingers around, until his hand circles Jakurai's wrist. "What exactly am I living for? For the people around me? For the doctors like you who want to pat themselves on the back for a job well done? Well, what is it, then?"

That is Jakurai's third mistake. The mistake of rising to the bait, the mistake of wanting to prove Amemura wrong, the mistake of wanting to prove himself. Jakurai doesn't know what makes him draw himself up to his full height and look Amemura in the eye, as though that will convey the strength of his conviction. "Yourself."

That seems to take Amemura by surprise. "Huh?"

"All I'm saying is, don't give up on yourself. You have come this far already, have you not? You have endured this long already, have you not?"

Seemingly at a loss, Amemura gives him a careful, sidelong look. Jakurai can just about see the flat gleam of his eyes in the dark. "Sure, I guess."

Jakurai smiles, half to himself. "First of all, most importantly of all -- you have to live for yourself. Don't you have dreams, dreams that you want to chase?"

"I guess," Amemura says again, slow and cautious. "Doesn't everyone?"

"Then use them. Use those dreams. Use them as your footholds and stepping stones, to find your reason to live and fight on. Even if it hurts. Even if each step is an ordeal, even if you feel like you're suffering and you are at your limit -- you continue to fight for yourself. If you've given up on yourself, how do you expect people not to give up on you? All the medicines and cures in the world will not help somebody who does not want to be saved. And if chasing after your dreams is the incentive you need, then run after them and never look back. Fight for them with tooth and nail until you can draw their blood, and fill yourself with them, with the very flesh and spirit of your dreams. Claw after them, inch by painful inch until you seize them in your own two hands."

"... so in short, you're just another person telling me to chase my dreams, huh." Amemura leans back, and tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. "Dreams? I don't know about that. I guess I want people to know me, to remember me. That's all I really want for now. I mean, it'd be preferable if I were known to be a famous and popular designer or something too, that'd be super cool. Not, you know, remembered for being _sooo_ tragic because I died _sooo_ young of some awful and incurable disease, boo hoo hoo." He throws his arm over his eyes in a theatrical gesture but beneath the shadow of his hand, his eyes are fixed on Jakurai.

"Then there's your answer. And--" Here, Jakurai hesitates. He's already said enough. "I'll remember you," he says at last. "When you're famous, I mean."

Amemura smiles -- and for the first time, Jakurai thinks he's seen something genuine. "I'd hold you to that promise, old man. You better buy my stuff -- I'll make sure to cater and market to a wide demographic."

.

(It's only later that Jakurai thinks to be offended -- but even then, his heart's not in it. Everyone over eighteen seems impossibly old and uncool, especially from the perspective of a middle-schooler.)

.

To his credit, Amemura weathers the treatments without complaint -- or at least, to most ears.

"It's such a _draaaag_ ," he says to Jakurai, and Jakurai alone. Only when they are alone does he let the false cheer and pretence leach from his voice; only then does he quieten, bitter in his pensiveness. "I just can't _staaaand_ it sometimes, y'know?" Amemura's voice rises at the last part, an almost singsong lilt -- the very same he uses to charm his nurses into sneaking him treats, forbidden sweets and candy and chocolate and jellies. Today he's working his way through a pile of toffees; a pirate's bounty of wrappers are scattered by his elbow. Catching Jakurai's eye, he unwraps another, and pops it into his mouth. His teeth crunch against the brittle candy shell; he munches meditatively, testing the filling. "Hmm, caramel," he says, and gives Jakurai a jaunty wink and a smile.

"Should you be partaking in all those?" Jakurai asks as he enters the room, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him. Something about being in the same closed, confined space as Amemura seems off-putting, somehow.

Amemura frowns, one cheek rounded out from the candy. "What, just because I'm dying and wasting and withering away doesn't mean I can't enjoy myself anymore? Booo. Party-pooper. If I can't even enjoy myself in my waning days, then I might as well just drop dead right here and right now!"

Jakurai's gaze wavers, almost sliding away. He forces himself to meet Amemura's eyes. "On the contrary. It's good that you still have a taste for the things you enjoyed, even given the medication."

"Man." Amemura leans forwards against the overbed table. He pillows his head in his arms, cheek nestled against the crook of his elbow. "Here I am, with a doctor -- well, fine, rookie medical practitioner who's actually some famous bigshot medical prodigy resident -- giving me license to eat candy. Sweet! Cool! Super! ... and yet you manage to make it sound like the least appealing thing, like, ever." He laughs, sounding thrilled at the very concept. "Hahaha! Just another thing I can't stand!"

Jakurai picks up several of the discarded sweet wrappers, then tucks them into his jacket pocket. He doesn't know how observant Amemura's doctor-in-charge is, especially when it comes to inspecting the trash for things his patient shouldn't be eating. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Amemura's lips twitch in a smile. "What else can't you stand?" Jakurai asks, pretending he doesn't see anything.

Amemura shrugs, a careless and cavalier motion. The hospital gown slides a little on his painfully thin shoulder. "Just ... everyone. Putting up a face all the time. I get tired of play-acting sometimes."

"And yet you don't put up a face for me." Jakurai sets down his clipboard on the bedside table. "And yet, you've shown me your true face."

"That's because you've already seen everything else, Mr. Resident." Amemura looks at him from beneath lowered lashes, watching as Jakurai carefully re-arranges lines and wires so they're no longer jumbled in a crisscrossed tangle. "The good, the bad ... and the ugly. Say, hey, I have a question for you too. It's no fair if you're the only one asking me difficult things! Nope, no fair at all."

When Jakurai doesn't respond, Ramuda leans forward, sticking his face right in Jakurai's field of vision. "Why do you keep coming to see me, Mr. Resident?"

"Professional curiosity," Jakurai says smoothly, as he checks on the various monitors and machines Amemura is hooked up to. Blood pressure and heart rate are normal, if a bit low. Nothing out of the ordinary -- at least, for now. 

"Professional curiosity," Amemura echoes. He looks at Jakurai with eyes wide and rounded beseechingly -- a classic puppy-dog look, the kind that flusters young female nurses. "That's so meaaaaan! Are you sure you don't come and visit me because I'm so cool and fun and interesting? So much more cool and fun and interesting than, ugh, all those boring medical textbooks and journals?"

"Those boring medical textbooks and journals are filled with vital research on how to treat -- and hopefully diminish your symptoms. If I am to be honest ..." jakurai trails off, hand stilling over his clipboard. His pen leaves a dark inkblot on the page. "I am intrigued about you, Amemura Ramuda. You contain many paradoxes; like a puzzle, that I cannot quite solve."

Amemura huffs under his breath and rests his fingertips along the edge of his bottom lip, thoughtful. "You're so boring, Mr. Resident. I guess that's all I am to you? A convenient case study to observe?"

"More than that, Amemura-kun," Jakurai checks on the IV line, appraising the drip and flow rate. "I care about your welfare. I care about your future. The future where you told me you would become a world-renowned fashion designer." He allows himself a small smile. "Maybe one day, I will get your autograph. I promise not to auction it off."

"Future, huh." Amemura sets down the fineliners he'd been holding, raising his arms above his head in an exaggerated pantomime of a stretch. The hospital band around his wrist slices back along his arm, patient details laid out in stark black and white. "Funny. Everyone else ... they're too busy trying to rush me through the _here_ and the _now_ , as if thinking too far about the future is _waaaay_ too hard and _waaaay_ too exhausting, and I gotta take it one teeny-tiny step at a time. Always telling me to live life to the fullest, to live like everyday is the last. Well, they don't actually tell me that last bit to my face, of course." He lifts his head and affixes Jakurai with a stare that's both piercing, and beseeching. "It feels like nobody was expecting me to last that long. And yet, you're the only one who really talks about the future with me."

"It's why I wanted to become a doctor." Satisfied that everything is well, Jakurai picks up his clipboard -- only to have it snatched away. Ramuda sets the clipboard on his knee, twirling Jakurai's pen nimbly around his fingers. "I wanted to help people. I wanted to serve humanity. Health is more than just a sound body -- it's a sound mind, too."

"Serving humanity, huh." Amemura glances down at his chart, and starts doodling along the margins. Jakurai isn't surprised that that's the part that Amemura latches onto. "What a boring and predictable answer. Not even in it for the money? For being able to hold lives in your hands?" He smirks at Jakurai, gazing at him through half-lidded eyes. "For being able to play god in microcosm?"

Jakurai remains where he is, standing. He folds his arms. 

"Ju~uuust kidding." Holding out the clipboard before him, Amemura appraises his sketch with a critical eye, then adds a few more crosshatched lines and broad pen strokes. He holds out the clipboard; Jakurai takes it.

He doesn't look at the picture until he's outside the room with its dimmed lights and too-many equipment. Scrawled boldly across Amemura's details is a bold and black insignia, a stylised skull and crossbones. When Jakurai's fingertip brushes against the ballpoint ink, it comes away dark. The other sheets underneath the first one have the symbol etched into them as well, so deep it almost tears the paper.

.

Pride. It had been his pride. Perhaps Amemura had believed in the conviction in Jakurai's voice; perhaps all he'd needed was just a spark of hope to cling on to, after he'd already resigned himself to fate -- and a failing body. 

In the end, Jakurai's rotation takes him elsewhere. It's only years later that he finds out about Amemura's passing. 

It shouldn't have shaken him so much. If he is to be pragmatic -- and sometimes, in the medical profession, one has to be -- it's a simple fact of life that people died all the time. What went up, would inevitably have to come down. What lived would eventually die, too. It was foolish to think anyone was above it, just because he willed it to be so. 

The first time Jakurai sees the ghost, he thinks he's dreaming or hallucinating. Maybe it's just light-headedness from too many hours of being on call, where he's swaying and almost dead on his feet as he makes his way home. The streets of Shinjuku are still bustling, still bright with life and activity this late in the night. Light spills from neon signs and shopfronts, a brilliant and multicoloured backdrop to the crowd. 

He glances to the side as he walks past a bank of vending machines; out of the corner of his eyes, a shock of brightly-dyed hair catches his attention. Unbidden, a memory stirs from the back of his mind, sluggish and tentative from lack of sleep. Beeping monitors; the sound of tubes and wires slithering across the ground; a voice, hard and cold and accusatory. Colourful hair, either candy- or jewel-toned, depending on the owner's mood; equally colourful clips and pins, keeping the hair back from a face ... a face he can't quite remember. A face that's faded in his memory, like an old and worn photograph left exposed to the sun. Jakurai swallows.

"Ah," a voice says, light and singsong. "Mr. Resident ... or should I say, Mr. Doctor now?"

Jakurai blinks, stumbling a little. The person contemplating the vending machine pivots slowly on their heels. Over their shoulder, Jakurai catches a glimpse of a logo graffitied onto the vending machine's glassy face -- a stylised skull, the teeth and cheekbones sharp and angular. 

"How many years has it been?" the person says, carelessly tracing the edge of the skull. His finger comes away sticky and wet and dark with spraypaint. "Though I guess it'd be a bit _mean_ and _nasty_ and _selfish_ to expect a busy, busy guy like you to remember me."

"Amemura-kun," Jakurai says, hesitating over the syllables. "They told me you were--"

"Dead?" Amemura  laughs, unnervingly delighted. "Well ... that's neither here nor there." 

Jakurai looks him up and down. Amemura is taller than he remembers -- or at least, only marginally so. Somewhere along the way, the planes and angles of his face changed; he no longer looks like a child. Jakurai racks his brains, thinking. Amemura can't have been much older when he died -- if he even did, at that. Did ghosts age? Was it just the delirium and lack of sleep, interfering with his senses?

Amemura cocks his head to the side as he leans back against the vending machine, resting his weight against his back foot. His hair is longer than it was all those years ago, but that guileless expression is just the same. Jakurai shuts his eyes, then opens them again. "Amemura-kun," he begins, uncertain. "What--"

"You _forgooooot_ ," Amemura interrupts, drawing out the syllables. "You forgot a dying kid! How mean! How despicable! You're the worst! The super-duper _woooorst_! Sob, sob!" He pretends to cry into his hands, exaggerated and theatrical. He peeks at Jakurai between his fingers; his eyes are bright and dry and unblinking. "You're really the worst, doctor. How does that make you feel? Was I just another face, just another patient? Even after you said such nice things to me, and gave me hope that things would change?"

"Of course not," Jakurai begins. He has to tear his eyes away from Amemura when a crowd of party-goers spill out of a nearby izakaya, tipsy salarymen flushed with alcohol and the aftermath of a good time. Trailing at the back of the gaggle is a younger man with dyed hair, his crumpled blazer thrown over one arm. His mouth is set into a grim line while he supports what could only be his manager as the older man drunkenly slurs about quarterly margins into his ear. The beleaguered young salaryman makes eye contact with Jakurai; his eyes widen slightly with recognition and, despite the weight of the other man, he bows to Jakurai. Jakurai nods back; he's met Kannonzaka Doppo a few times before, though the young man's ailments aren't so much physical as they are mental; it's been a while since their last consultation.

"A-ah, doctor," Kannonzaka says, sounding slightly breathless. His manager is older than he is, balding and a little on the stocky and portly side. His knees start to give slightly and Kannonzaka groans, hoisting the other man further up. "G-good evening."

"Good evening, Doppo-kun," Jakurai says automatically. Kannonzaka's manager slumps and mumbles a bleary complaint, arm flopping over Kannonzaka's shoulder. Kannonzaka's eyes widen in horror as the older man makes a throaty gurgle, but thankfully doesn't start vomiting. "... Doppo-kun," Jakurai begins and coughs, "do you need some assistance?"

"No, it's fine," Kannonzaka manages wheezily, half-dragging his manager to the side of the pavement so they're not in the way of other pedestrians. "I'll just call a taxi for him. Sorry for rushing off, but this guy's really, ugh, heavy--"

"But of course," Jakurai replies and watches as Kannonzaka moves off, now muttering under his breath. When Jakurai looks back to the vending machine, Amemura is gone, lost amidst the crowd of salarymen dissipating into the night.

On the front of the glass display pane, the black of the spray paint gleams wetly in the light, dark and multicoloured as an oil slick.

.

The ghost of Amemura Ramuda continues to haunt Jakurai through the years -- and the worst part is how he mixes into the crowds, blending in seamlessly like he belongs there. Jakurai comes to avoid the Shibuya area, because that's where Amemura's ghost favours the most. 

Amemura's ghost seems to have a predisposition for the mundane. He walks around the streets of Shibuya just like a normal person; he window-shops just like a normal person; he likes buying overpriced coffee watered down with all sorts of syrupy accoutrements from American franchises, just like a normal person. All too often, Jakurai thinks he catches a glimpse of pink hair amidst the crowd, a familiar figure lining up in broad daylight in the middle of Harajuku, for gigantic pillowy clouds of cotton candy. He's seen a fair few horror movies over the years -- perhaps ghosts don't just crawl through TV sets and lurk in the dark corners of cursed houses stained with murder and bloodshed. They were people once, after all -- it goes to reason that they'd retrace the imprints their living selves left in life.

The strangest part, though, is how Amemura easily slots into the world around him. It's one thing to have a ghost wandering amongst the living, passing through bodies far more real and corporeal than its own. It's quite another to have said ghost actually interacting with people, charming a waitress at the crepe shop into giving him extra whipped cream, sprinkles, sauce, and various other toppings -- at the cost of a wink and a cheeky, saccharine aside. Jakurai tries to ignore Amemura strolling alongside him, gleefully tucking into a crepe. Years later, he's still not entirely sure whether Amemura is even a ghost or not -- sometimes, he buys confectionery and makes other miscellaneous purchases just like myriad other people do; other times, he goes unnoticed, like when he childishly pulls faces at Jakurai through the train or bus windows while other commuters stare right past him, seemingly unaware of his presence.

"Ghosts don't tend to need to eat," Jakurai says out of the corner of his mouth as he quickens his pace through the mid-morning crowd.

"Who said I'm a ghost?" Amemura fires back, spoon waggling from between his teeth as he tucks his change -- and the waitress's phone number -- into his jacket pocket. His crepe teeters and wobbles precariously with its assortment of extras -- crumbled cookies, fairy floss, popping candy, tiny marshmallows, syrupy fruits, whipped cream, colourful sprinkles, and strawberry sauce fight vainly to stay in place atop the pile. Amemura rights the crepe before it can make itself very well acquainted with the pavement or the front of his shirt. "You just made that assumption on your own."

The mere sight of Amemura's crepe concoction makes Jakurai vaguely nauseous -- and inclined to book himself in for some sort of diabetes screening assessment. Instead, he says, "but you're dead."

"And?"

"The dead ... don't mix with the living like this."

"Or," Amemura says as he licks his spoon. The strawberry syrup drizzled over his crepe is bright and red as blood in the sunlight. "Or, get this. _You_ could also be dead. And everyone here is dead, too. Hey, hey, have you ever stopped to think about that? Or are you so full of yourself now that you're bigshot saintly Doctor Jinguji Jakurai, Shinjuku General Hospital's Angel of Mercy and God of Salvation? Do you think that just because of that, you're above death itself?"

"I think I would notice if I died," Jakurai says acidly.

Amemura smirks. "Wow, bold statement! ... is that a challenge?"

Jakurai elects to ignore Amemura for the rest of his commute to work. Thankfully, Amemura never enters the hospital, nor does he decide to take time out of his day to harangue Jakurai while he's there. Unfortunately, Amemura isn't quite as charitable when it comes to other locations -- he shadows Jakurai through Tokyo, as though just to prove that ghosts aren't just confined to wherever they visited the most in life -- undoubtedly Shibuya, in Amemura's case. Sometimes, out of the corner of his eye, Jakurai thinks he sees the shape of Amemura's shadow or a glimpse of his brightly-dyed hair; sometimes it's in Shinjuku when he's on the way home from work; sometimes when he's meeting friends or colleagues for dinner at Ueno; sometimes, even when he's drinking alone in Roppongi after a long and grueling day. 

Ignoring Amemura, however, is only a temporary measure; even alcohol doesn't seem to dull Jakurai's senses enough -- or at least, not enough to ignore Amemura altogether. Not that it ever takes much to soften the edge of his perception; not that it ever takes much to blur the lines between waking nightmare and reality. If anything, alcohol makes it worse -- it brings out an almost garish vividness in Amemura, so bright it almost hurts to look at him.

Evidently, he says as much to Amemura's ghost. Amemura has the gall to look affronted. "How mean!" he says, staring down at Jakurai slouched over the bar counter. "Are you calling me a waking nightmare? Sweet, charming, and perfectly innocent _me_?"

"... what else could you be?" Jakurai mumbles, indistinct, against the sleeve of his jacket. It's been a long day at the hospital; he's in no mood to play mind games with a ghost, especially the likes of one as gratingly spiteful as Amemura's. If possible Amemura's pout deepens. "Besides ... should you even be here? Weren't you ... hah ... underage when you ..."

"What? What?" Amemura leans closer, seemingly delighted at Jakurai's inability to pronounce the final word. "C'mon, you can say it. When I died. When I died clinging on to the false hope you gave me, that everything would be better soon. Yes, yes, that exactly!"

Jakurai hiccoughs and tries to peel himself away from the table. He hasn't even drunk that much tonight. At least he has tomorrow off. Hopefully he won't be hungover in the morning.

Amemura leans over, propping his chin up on his knuckles. He looks at Jakurai through lowered lashes, contemplative. "What, you think ghosts don't change with the times? Won't it be terribly boring? Stuck looking the same all the time, or looking how you did when you died?"

"I suppose so."

"Look at you now." Amemura tuts, spinning in slow, lazy circles on his barstool, swinging his legs as he goes. "So old and sad. I guess I'm kinda glad I avoided that fate. Or at the very least, I hope I look better than you do, once I'm that old."

"I'm thirty-five," Jakurai mutters, annoyed despite himself. "Not a geriatric."

"Really? I mean, you might as well be. Could've fooled me." Amemura picks up a lock of Jakurai's hair, and twines it around his fingers. His thumb brushes against the ends, before he opens his hand and lets the hair slip through his fingers. "It's all those late nights of being on call that's doing you in. Should've become anything but a doctor. Your eyebags are practically _designer_!"

"Perhaps." 

"So you take it back, then? All that feel-good drivel you told me years ago about wanting to help people, wanting to serve humanity? Admit it, doctor. You're just in it for the money and the glory, right? Being able to afford fancy cars and upscale penthouse apartments? Being able to have people falling over your feet, worshipping you for saving the lives of their loved ones?"

Jakurai resists the urge to rub his eyes. They feel tired and dry. Perhaps he should go home soon. Amemura's ghost has, at the very least, done him the courtesy of never following him back. 

"Well, whatever. I'll find out sooner or later, anyway." Amemura's voice is suddenly alarmingly close. Jakurai opens his eyes to find himself almost nose-to-nose with Amemura. Amemura smiles, a fishhook curve. "One day, I'll hear it straight from your own mouth."

"Hear what?"

"The ugly truth."

"Such confidence." Jakurai doesn't blink, though he feels his eyes start to water a little. "I don't make it a habit of confessing anything to ghosts."

"Then," Amemura says, and his voice is softer now, deeper than anything Jakurai's ever heard out of him. "I'll just have to haunt you some more."

As suddenly as it comes on -- the spell is broken. Amemura leans back and grins, almost devilish. "Well, enough about boring stuff like that! Y'know, looking at how old and washed-out you've gotten makes me think as well. I'd have been ... hm, twenty-five? This year?" he muses, rubbing his chin theatrically as he thinks out loud. "Twenty-five! You were about that age when we first met as well, right?"

"That is correct." Jakurai kneads gently at his forehead and temples with his knuckles. Ten years seems like an awfully long time -- and sometimes not long enough. Long enough to have forgotten about a dying patient, but not long enough to run away from the guilt. 

"Yikes," Amemura says, shaking his head. "I think I already look cooler than you did when you were the same age!"

Jakurai wants to glower at him, but finds he can't; his head hurts too much to entail staring at a fixed target for too long. He isn't sure how he'll handle looking at Amemura, who never sits still. 

"Yikes," Amemura says again. His hand snakes out, grasping Jakurai's glass; his hand brushes against Jakurai's, the skin surprisingly warm to the touch. He runs a fingertip along the rim, painting streaks down the sides that're foggy with condensation. Before Jakurai can stop him, he grabs the glass and takes a drink, draining the last dregs of the whiskey Jakurai had been nursing and meaning to finish. Save for the slight twitch at the corners of his eyes, his face betrays no hint of distaste at downing a respectable amount of high-proof liquor. Satisfied, he sets down the glass, resting it snugly back within Jakurai's still loosely-curled fingers. "Who knows where I'd have been. A successful designer with shows all over the world? What do you think, Mr. Doctor?"

Jakurai contemplates the thought of ordering another drink. Sadly, he's old enough to be all too cognizant of his own weaknesses and limits; even more sadly, his limit sits at approximately one standard drink. Perhaps two, if he feels particularly daring. "I think you could have done anything you wanted to, Amemura-kun."

"Mmhmm, I think so too. Maybe I'd have made it to the Big Four, too. Hey, hey, what d'you think, huh? New York, Milan, Paris, and London. Wouldn't that have been nice?"

"I see your dreams are the same as they were before."

"Well, why shouldn't they be? Dreams don't die just because you're dead," Amemura says, flippant. "Dreams, unlike people, are immortal. So are ideals, I guess." He draws an object out of his pocket, tosses it into the air and catches it, then repeats the motion again. Over and over. Jakurai catches the glimpse of something small and round in his palm -- a coin?

"So what about you, Mr. Doctor? You think your pretty ideals about helping people will transcend death?" Over and over, Amemura tosses the object, higher and higher each time. Jakurai watches him, cheek pressed against the bar counter and hand cupped loosely around the base of his glass.

"Hey, shitty old man," Amemura says at last, tiring of his antics and Jakurai's lack of response. He snatches the coin out of the air again -- and this time he keeps his fist closed over it. He raps his knuckles against the bar counter; the sound and movement is enough to jostle Jakurai out of his fugue. "You still there, old fart? Still with me?"

The only reason Jakurai deigns to respond is because he's hopelessly drunk. Sense of responsibility towards departed patients or not, he finds Amemura's profound irreverence irritating. "What is it, Amemura-kun."

"Wanna make a bet with me?"

"A bet," Jakurai repeats, slowly. "I'm not a betting man."

"Booo~ _riiiiing_." Amemura says. "Guess what, I don't care! You're in this game, whether you like it or not. You in?"

"You just said it yourself. Do I have a choice?"

Amemura's smile is a slow and sly thing, crawling up the corner of his mouth. "Don't be silly, of course you don't! But it's nice to give people the illusion of choice, isn't it? And me, oh, I'm just the suuuuper nicest!"

"I can walk away." As if to prove his point, Jakurai gets to his feet, slightly unsteady. He flicks his hair out of his face, pays his bill, and takes a step towards the door. Amemura smirks but doesn't move to block him; he stays where he is, still perched on the edge of his barstool.

"You can walk away, but that doesn't mean you're getting off the hook that easily," he calls out and stands as well. As he passes by Jakurai on his way to the door, he brushes close, deliberately driving the point of his shoulder against Jakurai's arm. Jakurai staggers a little, his head pounding from the alcohol. Amemura tiptoes slightly, whispering into Jakurai's ear. "Well, you've got everything you need now, anyway. Don't say you weren't thrown in unprepared."

 He pats Jakurai's coat pocket, before pushing open the door and exiting first -- and gives Jakurai a cheery wave. "See you in the Underground, old fart."


	2. GIVE UP (the monday remix) - are you living your life (or just waiting to die?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the value of trust, and lives.  
> (Faith in other people can, perhaps, be overrated.)

Jakurai wakes up face-down on the sidewalk. 

He breathes in -- and coughs from the smell of metal and asphalt. He tries rolling over. The edge of the kerb presses against his back and ribs, a dull and insistent throb that protests when he shifts his weight. It's very cold; his breath fogs out in short, truncated puffs.

There is broken glass scattered across the road, broken glass dusted on his coat and in the folds of his sleeves. When Jakurai brushes himself off, he finds several small objects nestled in his pockets -- objects that weren't there before. He inches his way to the sidewalk and sits down on the edge of the kerb, wincing at how even the simple movement seems to ache. Perhaps he really is getting old, just like Amemura keeps insisting. His fingers tighten over the objects in his hand; the edges dig into his palm, just uncomfortable enough to remind him of their presence. He opens his hand and holds it up; the edges of the mystery items glint in the dark, illuminated by the harsh bluish glare of the streetlight. They're small and flat, bottlecap-sized pins; no doubt, the kind meant to be pinned onto clothes or bags as accessories. On the largest is an insignia he's all-too-familiar with by now -- the same skull he's seen graffitied in several locations around the city, the same skull he's seen as a sticker tacked onto the rare shopfront. The others are rather more esoteric in nature, all decorated with bold, colourful patterns evocative of street art. 

Jakurai studies the pins, though he knows no answers will be forthcoming from them -- despite the imagery crammed onto the tiny surfaces, there isn't a single line of writing on them, or anything that could possibly enlighten him to their purpose. Dissatisfied, he slides the pins back into his pocket and looks around. Around him, the neon signs of Roppongi still blaze painfully bright -- so bright he has to squint; oddly, his side of the street is empty. It's a slightly more residential one, a single-laned side-road where larger vehicles would not be able to fit through; at the intersections on either side, he can see nighttime traffic still carrying on back and forth, small huddles of late-night pedestrians hurrying home. 

He checks his watch. The face is cracked, but he can still make out the time -- it's just a little past three in the morning. Jakurai frowns, shaking his wrist a little as though that will right whatever delicate internal mechanism got damaged during ... during what? During his fall? Yes, that is exactly what must have happened. He must have gotten so drunk that he managed to stumble a few streets down from his usual bar, only to finally pass out somewhere along the way. His lip curls with distaste; it's a most unbecoming way for him to act. He should have known better than to go drinking after such a long and exhausting day. The sooner he can get himself home, the better -- Jakurai has every intention of spending his day off doing as little as he can, save for nursing the hangover he can feel forming in his temples.

After giving himself a few more moments to gather his wits around him -- and to ensure he's sober and awake enough to stand without giving himself another concussion -- Jakurai pulls himself upright with the help of a bicycle rack. The metal is cold, the paint worn smooth in places by years worth of user, years worth of hands and security chains running over the surface. With a start, he realises it's the same bicycle rack he saw Amemura's ghost perched on. Though it can't have been more than a few days since, it feels like a lifetime ago. On the wall behind is the same graffitied mural, with its stylised winged skull emblem tucked amongst the other elements.

"Ah, me. This is most unusual. How very like our dear Composer, to twist the rules in his favour like this," a voice says, soft and musing -- and yet strangely layered and distorted. Jakurai turns around. A large animal watches him from where it sits, under the shadow of a nearby shop's awning; Jakurai catches a glimpse of a slim, vulpine snout and sharp, bright eyes. It's unusually -- monstrously -- large for a fox, sleek and pale-furred, with nine long tails that look like they're made from dark, inky lines, jagged in the dark. They almost blend in with the graffiti on the wall behind. The wings of the skull mural frame the fox's body, stark black contrasting against its pale fur.

"Goodness," the fox says and shakes its head, a surprisingly human gesture. It sounds both bemused, and rueful. Its voice is disorienting to listen to; soft and calm, yet almost like a multitude different voices, layered overlapping one another -- male and female, old and young. There's a curious quality to it, strange and echoing like the reverb in a microphone, and yet overlaid with static. It almost makes Jakurai want to attempt to re-tune a radio channel he knows isn't actually there. "I don't normally make it a habit of personally appearing in front of players and collecting their entrance fees, but I suppose I can make an exception, just this once." It cocks its head to the side. "The Composer did ask rather nicely."

"I beg your pardon," Jakurai says, handling the words carefully between his teeth. Hallucinations of dead people, he can reconcile with; talking folklore animals with graffitied body parts, he cannot. "Could I trouble you with a question?"

The fox gives him a crafty, sidelong glance. "My, aren't you direct. But I hope you do understand, I cannot just freely dispense information at no cost."

Jakurai doesn't blink. "No, of course not."

"No," the fox agrees evenly, its voice light and conversational. "How about it, then? I tell you a riddle, and you will give me the answer. If you are correct, I will truthfully answer any question you have for me. If you are wrong ... hmm ..." It pauses; its eyes slide shut, as though deep in thought. "... well, I suppose I will eat you. A nice and convenient little exchange, no? At least we each stand to benefit in some way, regardless of how the situation ends."

When Jakurai doesn't reply, the fox's pale green eyes flicker open to meet his. Its jaws part in an unnerving facsimile of a human smile. "... that was just a lie."

Only then does Jakurai blink, breaking the fox's stare. "... I see."

"... now then. You had a question?"

"What happened to me? Why am I seeing you?"

The fox nods, approving. "Getting to the point, I see. The Composer wasn't wrong when he said you are a sharp one. Or  _were_ , as things stand now." It taps a paw lightly against the ground and glances to the side, as though contemplating how much to divulge. "Hmm, how shall I say this. Doctor Jinguji Jakurai, of the Shinjuku ward ... you are a dead man."

Somehow, the knowledge does not come as a huge shock to Jakurai. If anything, he feels something akin to a dull resignation that sinks into the pit of his stomach. It explains the glass; it explains why he'd woken up in the middle of the road; it explains why his body feels heavy and painful. With more calm than he thinks he possesses, he just nods. "Ah. I see. Thank you for telling me. I suppose that makes you a reaper, of sorts?"

The fox pricks its ears, sitting a little straighter. "Hmm, that's somewhat on the mark, I suppose."

"I presume the next step is you reaping my soul, so to speak."

That elicits a laugh out of the fox; a short bark of surprise, the sound suddenly sharp and discordant. "Astute, but not quite. You are caught between worlds," the fox continues. still watching him carefully. "The consequence of a hit-and-run. A most unfortunate casualty, born from being in the wrong place, at the wrong time."

It lowers its head, voice dropping to a whisper; when it speaks, it sounds like the static of a distant radio station, tuned just out of range of the receiver. "Had you left the bar five minutes earlier, you would have made it home safely. Had you left the bar five minutes later, you would also have made it home safely. Under normal circumstances, I would ask you if you wished to participate in a game. A wager, if you will, with your life at stake. A chance to return, or face erasure."

_Hey, shitty old man. Wanna make a bet with me?_

Of course. Amemura had meant it when he said Jakurai wouldn't get off the hook that easily. Jakurai pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to clear his thoughts. Ghosts and grudges go hand-in-hand, after all. "I don't suppose I have a choice."

The fox chuckles, raising a paw to cover its mouth. Jakurai thinks he can hear its laugh echoing in his bones and pressing against his eardrums. "Oh, under normal circumstances, you would, certainly. Every game needs its rules, after all. But the Composer is very much of the opinion that rules are made to be broken -- and since it's his own rules he's breaking, it's--" Here, the fox's voice changes, pitch rising slightly. "-- _totally okie-dokie!_ " 

The abrasively cheerful tone is at odds with the fox's otherwise reserved demeanour. The fox coughs, not breaking eye contact with Jakurai. "Excuse me."

"I presume," Jakurai begins, cautious, "that I am not afforded the same luxury of rule-breaking as this Composer is."

"You are correct."

"Very well then. What must I do?"

The fox blinks at him, in the lazy manner of a cat in the sunlight. "You're taking this remarkably well. You're not even going to question the existence of a game in which you play for the chance at resurrection?"

"My options are limited. Scepticism will not get me very far."

"Ah ... but I could be lying."

Jakurai meets the fox's gaze squarely. "It's a calculated risk I will have no choice but to take." 

The fox's eyes widen slightly. They are the pale green of young leaves, new shoots budding too early in the spring. "I see. Quick on the uptake, aren't you? The Composer made an excellent choice. You're not as temperate as you look, doctor. Inside, your blood still burns and boils. Good, the Composer was afraid of the opposite."

"The opposite?" Jakurai echoes.

"The opposite. That you'd lived so long, unfettered and untouched by the lives and troubles of others that your soul and spirit froze over entirely." It nods, approving. "Very well, very well. The rules of the game are simple: survive for a week in the Underground." The fox flicks the tip of one of its many tails, gesturing at the streets around them. "Find yourself someone you can trust, and complete missions together in order to survive -- or face erasure, with your efforts amounting to naught. Defeat the Game Master, and all other enemies leading up to them. On the Seventh Day, the Composer will judge you -- will you be worthy of leaving this limbo and ascending to the highest realm? Or will you return to the world of the living? Or ... will you be erased, turning into a less than a memory in the wind? That ... well, it's up to you and how well you play the Reapers' Game." Its pale eyes narrow, boring into Jakurai's. "And now, the question is this: will you survive?"

Jakurai doesn't reply. He gets to his feet, then slides his hands into his pockets -- and his fingertips brush against something. He draws the largest of the pins out of his pocket and holds it up to the light. Glossy black with the stylised white emblem of a skull on it; the same and familiar image he's seen emblazoned all over Shibuya and parts of Tokyo, something he'd just assumed to be a new and trendy thing for graffiti artists to draw.

The fox stands. The ends of its legs truncate in paws that are dark and irregularly-shaped, much like its tails. "As you can see, all the necessary preparations are in place. Now then ... perhaps you should get going. The Game Master will be issuing the first mission soon. It wouldn't do for you to fall this early on, especially after all the trouble it took to get you here."

"What do you mean?"

"Ah, that was just a lie." The fox glances over its shoulder; the corner of its mouth quirks into something resembling a smile. "You're just like anyone else that falls into the Underground -- a victim of circumstance, given another chance. Do try not to squander it."

.

The so-called Underground, upon first inspection, does not seem that different from the streets of Roppongi. 

How mundane. Although Jakurai does not consider himself a religious man, it is strangely disappointing to find the afterlife mirroring the reality he's only recently left. As the cover of night gives way to the light of early morning, it is immediately apparent that the Roppongi of the dead is indistinguishable from its living counterpart; even at the early hour, the streets slowly fill up with people going about their daily business -- salarymen on their way to work; teenagers moving in a singular large and noisy gaggle on their way to school; commuters making their way from train station to bus stop. 

The day passes slowly, the minutes seeming to trickle past in an uneasy pace; given the fox's cryptic words from before, Jakurai has no idea what to expect. Through the morning and then the afternoon, Jakurai watches people come and go, carrying on with their normal, everyday lives; over the news, he hears about a train accident, with a small handful of casualties. The newsreaders are solemn and to the point; the next news article is a focus piece on illegal gambling dens and other such criminal activity, and, in turn, their ties with the yakuza.

Something about the timing of all these news bulletins sets Jakurai's nerves on edge; he feels a mounting sense of unease that perches on the back of his neck, a sense of urgency that tightens in his back teeth. 

Late in the afternoon, Jakurai's phone buzzes in his pocket. When he checks it, there's no reception -- but he's received a message. The message has no sender.

_Reach 109. You have 60 minutes. Fail, and face erasure._

His hand stings sharply then; when he inspects it, he finds numerals seared into his skin. The number change, counting down -- a timer, no doubt linked to the message he's just received. 

It's a straightforward enough objective, with a straightforward time limit and consequence. Jakurai glances around him, considering. No need to draw this out longer than required; though he has plenty of time, it'd be best to make haste for his destination -- and the last thing he wants is to take a wrong turn and end up late. He pivots slowly on his heels, trying to get a better bearing of his surroundings; while he knows perfectly well where his usual Roppongi bar is, he has no idea where he'd woken up earlier, and even less idea where he'd wandered in the dark while mulling his next course of action. Perhaps it was a bad idea to go drinking in Roppongi this time, instead of his usual haunts in Shinjuku -- at least he's more familiar with all the little streets, alleys, and shortcuts he can take on his home turf. When he checks his phone, there is still no reception; GPS won't be an option.

Over by the pedestrian crossing, a group of people congregate, waiting for the lights to change. Jakurai approaches a young man by the fringes of the crowd, one who looks least preoccupied by scrolling through SNS on his phone. Overhead, the sun sits low in the sky, casting long, narrow shadows across the street. The days are shorter this time of the year; it won't be long until the sun sets entirely; Jakurai has no burning desire to make his way to Shibuya amidst the evening rush. "Excuse me, I'm sorry for troubling you. Would you be able to tell me which is the shortest route to the 109 building?"

The man ignores him. Overhead, the pedestrian light crossing glares bright and red, a beacon in the sunset. Jakurai clears his throat, and repeats the question.

"He won't answer, you know. Nobody can and nobody will."

Jakurai's head whips around sharply. There, perched on the end of a pedestrian barricade littered with skull decal stickers, is a familiar face.

"Amemura."

"Yo yo yo, hiya, surprise!" Amemura says brightly and laughs, as though his greeting is comically funny. "Didja miss me? Were you worried? Didja think, oh noooo, nobody can see or hear me and this is how I die, sad and alone and ignored by the world?"

The lights change; the crowd of pedestrians surge in a wave across the street, like a tide breaking and re-forming around Jakurai. He watches them go, motionless. The pedestrian light blinks a few more times, then changes colours again. The late evening sun blazes behind Amemura, casting his features into shadow; the pedestrian light lends a virulent red cast to the planes and edges of face. The countdown on Jakurai's palm tingles and itches, an insistent warning. He closes his hand.

"Don't worry," Amemura says, swinging his legs. They kick back and forth, going higher each time. The end of his belt buckle waves with each movement, hitting the rails of the barricade with a _clang_. He withdraws a lollipop out of one of his jacket pockets and unwraps it, the cellophane packaging crinkling loudly. With one hand, he jams the candy between his teeth; with the other, he lobs the wadded-up wrapper into a nearby trashcan. It sails cleanly inside, without touching a single edge of the rim. "I can still see you. I can still hear you. Aaaand ..." Here, he lowers his voice and beckons for Jakurai to come closer. Despite himself, Jakurai complies.  "... more importantly, I'm here to make a deal. A deal I've been waiting very, very long to make," Amemura murmurs, watching Jakurai carefully from beneath lowered lashes. 

"... even though you were singing a completely different tune before?" Jakurai asks.

"Huh?" Amemura's eyes round in a pantomime of surprise. "Whaddaya mean?"

"Is this also part of your bet?"

"Oh, that." Amemura waves his hand, a breezy and cavalier gesture. "Well ... maaaaybe. God, are you always so boring, getting hung up about details like that? For someone so smart, you're really kinda dumb!"

Jakurai breathes in through his nose, a pithy retort ready on the tip of his tongue; before he can say anything, Amemura shakes a finger at him, steamrolling on. "Nuh-uh, I'm not done. I reeeeaaaally think maybe you should get your ears cleaned out -- did you seriously hear _bet_? I was asking if you wanted to make a _pact_ , shitty old geezer. Ugh, yikes, you really are a geriatric! Shall I fetch you an ear trumpet? Are you going to be a liability to me?"

Before Jakurai can say anything, he hears it --something he isn't expecting to. Not in the urbane streets of Roppongi, at the very least. Through the hum of the nighttime crowds and traffic, through the screen and groan of train wheels against metal tracks, Jakurai can hear the sound of many voices, raised in fear and desperation. The unmistakable sounds of screaming. Amemura, too, cocks his head. "Ooh... it looks like things are finally starting."

"What is it? What's starting?"

"The Game," Amemura says, still looking off into the distance. He chews meditatively on his lollipop, worrying at it with his back teeth -- and then he bites down with a sharp and hard _crunch_ , loud enough for Jakurai to hear even over the oncoming din. "The Reapers' Game, duh." He casts Jakurai a sidelong look, disbelieving. _Crunch, crunch, crunch_ ; he chews on the shards of candy, then licks his lips. "Don't tell me, nobody told you?"

"They did, but--"

"But nothing." Amemura hops nimbly off the pedestrian barricade and whips his phone out of his pocket, checks it. "Whoopsie, we've dallied around long enough!" He clicks his fingers to get Jakurai's attention. "Hey, c'mon, stop daydreaming and hop to it-- unless you wanna get erased."

"Erased--" Jakurai begins, but doesn't have to continue. Going against the flow of the crowd are a few people, running. Behind them lope a menagerie of creatures Jakurai isn't expecting to see roaming around the streets -- snarling wolves and rampaging elephants; unusually large frogs, their skin a bright and vivid poisonous green; lumbering, bellowing bears; the blurred, indistinct shapes of birds, swooping low in the sky. Before his eyes, an elephant tosses its head, goring a young man and tossing him into the air. Before Jakurai's eyes, the body seems to hang, suspended in the air for impossibly long, and then flickers away. 

"We should stay and help--"

At the end of the intersection and haloed by the ghostly blue glow of streetlights turning on for the night, Amemura turns back. "You wanna die a martyr, that's your decision," he spits, His voice is lower, harsher than anything Jakurai's ever heard from him. "But tell me this, then. Who can you help when you're dead? Who can you save when you're dead? Nobody, that's who. What can you do if you're dead? Nothing, that's what. So I'd run if I were you, Jinguji Jakurai. Put your trust and faith in me -- just like how I did for you, all those years ago -- and run."

Jakurai glances back over his shoulder as a bear sinks its claws into a fleeing girl's leg. Her cries are cut off as a pack of wolves set upon her, their snarling mixing with the bear's roaring in hideous cacophony. Through the noise, he can hear the piercing shriek of the girl, the sound fading into the night. He runs.

.

They make it to Shibuya in record time, Amemura leading Jakurai through cramped back streets and hidden alleyway detours without breaking stride. They emerge into the scramble crossing, in time to see a ragtag gaggle of people congregated at the centre of the crossing, fending off the monstrous animals. Unaware of the battle in their midst, pedestrians and commuters carry about their normal business. A few feet in front of Jakurai, two dark-haired teenage boys bicker and berate one another as they launch waves of fire and electricity at the oncoming attackers, attempting to keep them at bay. To their left, two young men in suits stand back-to-back and shouting at each other, a harried and flustered back-and-forth of running commentary, updating one another on what each are doing. Beyond them, another pair work in silence -- not even in synchronicity, but as though with a grim sense of purpose. All around the crossing, Jakurai can see small pockets of people -- but always unmistakably paired into twos -- struggling to fend off the beasts.

"Oh, looks like we're a little bit late," Amemura observes, skidding to a halt. "Whoopsie daisy!" He bumps against the taller of the two teenage boys -- lanky, wearing a snapback and with a flannel shirt tied around his waist -- and laughs when the boy scowls.

"Oi, watch where you're going!" the boy snaps, righting himself before he can lose his footing. His snapback wobbles, almost falling off; he grabs it before it can, hands clenched tightly around the brim. Jakurai catches a glimpse of a familiar skull pin, tacked to the crown of the hat.

"Sorry, sorry, my bad," Amemura says, not sounding sorry at all. "What's up?"

"What's up," the boy repeats in disbelief. "What's _up_ , he asks. We're a bit busy trying not to die here, is _what is up_." 

"Shut up and pay attention!" the shorter of the two boys yells, jumping back from the swipe of a bear's massive clawed paw. He must be the first boy's brother, judging from the similarity of their facial features. "I knew I should've partnered with someone else! You're so useless! Can't even walk and talk at the same time, let alone fight and talk at the same time! If you're going to run your mouth, do it when we're not about to die!"

The first boy makes a strange, strangled little noise at the back of his throat. "Why, you little-- watch who you're calling useless!"

"I call useless people useless if they're being useless!"

"Your _face_ is useless!"

"Your _entire existence_ is useless!"

"Who're you calling useless, useless!"

Amemura laughs as the boys launch into a fresh barrage of arguments, trying to see who can shout the other down the fastest. "Wow, I guess you can get all sorts of lively fun if completely different people make a pact! Speaking of pacts, though ..." He turns to Jakurai and smiles. There's something distinctly unsettling about it; Jakurai can't quite put his finger on it. "Didja have time to think about it?"

When Jakurai doesn't reply, he snaps his fingers, as though making a sudden realisation. "Ooooh, yeah, I guess that much wasn't really explained in the message, huh? See everyone else around here, how they can fight back against the monsters? While the others from earlier couldn't? It's because they made a pact to work together. Guess the other guys wasted a teeny bit too much time or didn't get the memo, or something."

Something about pacts brings a memory to the forefront of Jakurai's mind, surfacing like a sluggish fish from the depths of his tiredness and disorientation. He thinks of the fox with the pale green eyes, its shadow stretching abnormally long and abnormally large in the harsh blue-white glare of the streetlights. _Find yourself someone you can trust._

He meets Amemura's eyes. Amemura, who's still smiling, guileless as a child. Can he really trust Amemura? Amemura, who's been haunting him for years, Amemura, who, until hours ago, had been a ghost and grudge, fuelled by Jakurai's guilt. Amemura, who'd dragged him from Roppongi to Shibuya through back streets and alleys, who'd withheld important information from him.

A small, white-hot surge of anger jolts Jakurai's spine. He draws himself up to his full height, staring down at Amemura. "These pacts. Do you mean to tell me that ... that entire ... misfortune could have been averted? Had we formed a pact there and then, back in Roppongi?"

"Well, yeah, duh." Amemura raises his eyebrows. "Man, you really are dense. I'm starting to get really worried about all those patients you treated. Maybe it was a good thing you weren't the doctor in charge of my health!"

All the background noise -- the shouts of the fighting pairs, the roars of the attacking beasts, the bustle of traffic  -- everything seems to fade, filling Jakurai's ears with a shrill ringing that intensifies to a white noise whine. "Why didn't you tell me this earlier?"

"Because we had to get here on time, of course," Amemura says, in the manner of explaining something elementary to a slow toddler. "Had you dawdled there, we wouldn't even have made it here." He lifts a wrist and taps at the face of an imaginary watch. "Time's ticking. The message said we had sixty minutes to get here, and now look, we've got a teensy bit of time to spare before the deadline. Neat, right? Just enough time to make a pact, too!"

A scream cuts through the buzzing in Jakurai's ears -- somewhere past the still-bickering boys, a young woman falls and loses her footing, clutching her bleeding forearm to her chest; through her fingers, Jakurai can see ragged bitemarks dragging down the length of her arm. A young man with white hair jumps in front of her before the attacking wolf can advance, and sends the creature snarling back with an attack; next to him, another man dressed in out-of-place army fatigues helps the woman up, supporting her against his shoulder.

"The more you dally, the more of a pickle we'll be in!" Amemura's voice wrenches Jakurai's attention from the scene. "What do you say, shitty old man? Wanna make a pact with me, and turn the tide of the battle?"

Jakurai sets his back teeth together, and jerks his head once in a nod. There will be plenty of time to question Amemura, to call him out, once they're no longer in immediate danger. "Very well. I accept."

Amemura's smile is wide and -- and there's a hint of something in it, something that Jakurai can't quite read. "Hehe, sweet," he says, and slaps Jakurai's open hand in a high-five. Jakurai's fingers and palm sting from the impact. "Try to keep up, old man!"

.

It doesn't take long before they quell the wave of beasts -- strange, otherworldly things that dissipate into static, white noise, and nothingness once dispatched. 

"Whew," Amemura sighs, squatting on his haunches. He's taken care not to let the end of his ridiculously long belt drag against the ground, tucking it over his knees. He holds the leather strap taut between his hands, stroking the material with his thumbs. "Now that's a relief. Gosh, I'm suuuper pooped!"

Jakurai ignores him, in favour of checking up on the rest of the players left standing. They'd eventually managed to fight their way to the side of the scramble crossing, towards the statue of Hachiko. At this hour, there are markedly less people around; not that the sparse crowd of the living will notice the dead amongst them. Jakurai kneels next to the woman with the mauled arm. "Are you all right?"

"Y-yeah," she murmurs, not meeting his eyes. 

There's a slight commotion behind them; Jakurai turns in time to see the white-haired man and the young soldier -- or at least, the one Jakurai presumes is a soldier, given his fatigues -- return from a nearby convenience store. Their hands are full of several shopping bags, bulging with food and provisions; the soldier has wedged a large thermos and several paper cups into the many pockets of his cargo pants. The sight seems to reinvigorate Amemura; he leaps to his feet and prances towards the white-haired man, eagerly pawing at the purchases. Before the man can successfully push Amemura away, Amemura skips back, victoriously holding aloft a pack of lollipops.

The soldier pours out portions of something hot and steaming to the thermos, offering it to the survivors; the woman with the mauled arm accepts the cup he proffers her, cradling it between her hands. She sips gratefully at the beverage -- and makes a face. To her credit, she tries to hide it to the best of her ability. Pleased, the soldier nods briskly at her and moves on, thermos and disposable cups in tow.

His companion -- who'd introduced himself earlier as Samatoki; something about the name stirs a vague, half-formed memory at the back of Jakurai's mind -- draws to a halt before Jakurai, handing him one of the bags. Jakurai inspects the contents -- a few first aid kids; some vitamin and supplement drinks; bandages; it's not much, but it will have to do. It's still markedly better than what Jakurai expects, given their options. "Yo, Doc, sorry about that. It's the best I could get."

"That's quite all right, Samatoki-kun. Thank you, this will suffice for now. We're fortunate that there weren't too many injuries among our number." 

Samatoki chews on the inside of his cheek. "You were right," he blurts out as Jakurai turns back to the injured woman, already unspooling the bandages. "I mean, your hunch was right, Doc -- the people in the shop could see us, all right."

"Is that so." Jakurai's hands still. "I wonder why that is?"

"Yeah, the cashier said that since we're ..." Samatoki breaks off, a curious expression passing across his face -- half wince, half an irritated grimace -- "y'know, now that we're all dead and shit, we can't really interact with ... the rest of the people around here. Since we're trapped in some bullshit fuck-off limbo or something. Argh, it fuckin' sucks that we can see and hear them, but they can't."

Perhaps the excessive use of expletives is a coping strategy. Jakurai nods politely. "I see."

"Anyway, the cashier did say something else though," Samatoki continues, rubbing the back of his head and further ruffling his hair in the process. It sticks up along the top and sides, like a rather pale and unruly nest. "He said that we gotta look out for any places with this, uh, reaper decal thing. That's where we know we're welcome." With some difficulty, he slides his numerous shopping bags back along his arms, rummaging in a pocket. He produces a pin -- the large pin with the skull logo. "We gotta look for a logo like this one. Yeah, there was a sticker on the shop window."

"I see." Jakurai reaches into his pocket, grasping his own pin. He runs his thumbnail along the smooth, rounded edge; it slips out of his fingers. 

"Kinda puts things into new perspective, I guess," Samatoki says as he digs through one of his convenience store bags. He produces a pack of cigarettes, pulling one out with his teeth. Next, he pats his pockets, grunting with satisfaction when he locates a lighter. "I always took that store for granted. I mean, there are conbinis all over the place, but I stopped by that one a few times, saw the logo and all, thought it was some hip and trendy thing kids were into. And now that we're here and dead, it's just so, fuck, I dunno, convenient."

"It _is_  some hip and trendy thing kids are into," a voice says by Jakurai's elbow. Amemura is bent slightly at the waist, as though leaning closer to have a better look at both Samatoki and the pin. The stick of a lollipop sticks out from between his lips, waggling as he talks. "Not that the two of you'd know, hehe. You guys wouldn't know trendy even if it popped out of a manhole and bit you in the butt!"

Samatoki bares his teeth in a snarl. "The fuck did you say? You wanna repeat that, ya half-pint punk?"

"Those places are run by reapers," a voice interrupts before the situation can escalate The soldier is back, empty thermos crammed into one of the voluminous pockets of his cargo pants. "It makes sense."

"Reapers," Samatoki grumbles, momentarily distracted from Amemura. Once confident that Samatoki is looking away, Amemura sticks his tongue out in Samatoki's direction. "The fuck are they actually meant to be?"

"Exactly what the name suggests?" Amemura says, a hint of grating snideness creeping into his voice. He smirks when Samatoki glowers at him. "They're reapers, and we're dead. We're playing their game, to try and get another chance at life. They're the ones running the show, _duuuuuh_." He pauses as though for effect, whispering through the side of his mouth to the soldier. "Y'knooow ... I think I can see who the brains of your operation are! And it's clearly not Mr. Hardcore over there!"

Samatoki bristles. "Oi, ya fucking brat. You think this is some kinda joke?"

"Ah, no, the mean scawy man got mad at me!" Amemura ducks behind Jakurai, making a show at grasping at his coat. "Protect me!"

"I am a little preoccupied at the moment," Jakurai says, and nods at the injured woman. "Apologies, I'm sure you have just as many questions as the rest of us. We may not be able to help with that, but what I can do is tend to your wounds." He holds out a hand, prompting. "May I?"

Slowly, she nods. Jakurai notices she's shivering.

The soldier does, as well. Wordlessly, he strips off the top of his fatigues. He's wearing a dark red t-shirt underneath; his shoulders are broad and his arms corded in muscle. "Here," he says, and drapes the fatigues around her shoulders. "Take this, warm up for a while. You'll be fine with the good doctor."

The woman nods again, drawing the heavy top closer around herself and gingerly extending her injured arm to Jakurai as well. The wounds aren't as deep as Jakurai had initially feared -- though given the strange creatures that attacked them, he's inclined to err on the side of caution. He cannot begin to imagine what kind of pathogens are being carried by monstrous animals that dissipate into nothingness when defeated.

Amemura sits on his haunches and watches, chin tucked into his hands. "Always the exemplary doctor!" he says, watching Jakurai as he works. "No matter what situation you're thrown into. Wowie, you really are something!"

Jakurai dabs antiseptic onto the woman's wounds and binds them up carefully. She smiles at him, lips quivering slightly; Jakurai doesn't blame her for still feeling shaken. Next, he turns his attention to the soldier, nodding at the makeshift bandage tied around his knee. "Sorry for keeping you waiting--" He pauses, meeting the young man's eyes. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name?"

"Riou," the soldier says. "Just Riou is fine, doctor."

"Thank you, Riou-kun." Jakurai motions for Riou to sit down. "How are you feeling?"

Riou complies, barely wincing when he has to bend his knee. "I'm fine." His hands rest, loose and relaxed on his lap. "Please treat the others first, doctor. It's just a flesh wound."

"Can it," Samatoki growls, looming over to take a look as well. "I'm not having my partner dragging me down and being a fucking liability. Let Doc take a look, or so help me, I'll hold you down my damn self. You wanna be difficult, I'll bandage you so hard you might as well have a tourniquet."

"That," Jakurai cuts in swiftly, "will be counterproductive, Samatoki-kun. I would advise against you doing that."

"Wow, that sounds almost kind and caring from a grumpy guy like you!" Amemura pipes up, and only laughs at the withering glower Samatoki directs at him.

Despite the roughness of his phrasing, Jakurai can see right through Samatoki's harshness and posturing. He ducks his head a little, hiding a smile beneath the fall of his hair. "Samatoki-kun is right. At least let me take a lot."

"Sorry for the trouble, doctor," Riou says, and makes no further protest. Jakurai is slightly surprised to find the wound reasonably well bandaged and tended to, the bleeding having stopped for a while. Once he's satisfied, Jakurai tidies and packs up the supplies, preparing to tend to the next injured person. Amemura trails him, like a particularly bothersome shadow with a penchant for making running commentary. By the time Jakurai is done, his shoulders are starting to ache, his back starting to feel a little stiff. He refrains from showing any sign of discomfort; he knows Amemura will just take it as an opportunity to make more pointed jabs about his age.

Instead, Jakurai puts down his supplies on an unoccupied bench and stretches out his hands in front of him, feeling some of the tension dissipate. "Good job!" Amemura says, flopping down in the next bench over -- and just narrowly avoiding sitting on the head of another player who'd been sprawled, napping on the seat. The man lets out what can only be described as an indignant squawk of protest. "Hey!"

"Whoooopsie!" Amemura jumps up as though burnt. "Yikes, I didn't see you there! You almost gave me a big heart attack!"

The other player sits up, rubbing his eyes. His dark hair sticks up at odd angles at the top of his head; with some annoyance, he re-fluffs up the fur trim attached to the hood of the folded-up parka he'd been using as a pillow. "Geez, and what about me? I'm so pooped after all that carry-on from earlier and all I wanted was a nap, and then you had to come barging in! What's a guy gotta do for some rest around here?"

"We're sorry for the intrusion," Jakurai says, when it's evident Amemura has no intention of issuing a genuine apology. "You're right, proper rest is important in order for your body to recuperate. We were just leaving."

"Aw, man, I should hope so," the young man grumbles, and curls up again. He has skinny knees; they peek through his fashionably ripped and frayed white jeans. Jakurai doesn't remember if he ever went out of his way to pay for deliberately destroyed clothing. Just another sign of his age, he thinks with an inward sigh.

Seated in another bench just further along the row, a man dressed in traditional garb turns a page of his book. "I do apologise for my partner," he says without looking up. "He's cranky if he doesn't get enough food, sleep, or fun."

"Hey, shut up, I'm not a toddler!" The player in the park bench jumps to his feet, indignant. "Augh, shut your mouth, Gentaro!"

_Gentaro_. Jakurai takes a better look at the reading man. He's heard the name before -- even enjoyed some of his novels. Amemura takes advantage of his momentary distraction to brush past and peer closer at the man. "Gentaro? Ooh, did he say _Gentaro_? Are you really him? _The_ Yumeno Gentaro, mysterious and famed author himself?!"

The reading man laughs under his breath as he turns a page. "I'm afraid you must be mistaken."

Amemura laughs. "Whaaat, I wouldn't get your name wrong! I'm a big fan, y'know." He slams his palms against the arms of the other man's bench, leaning forwards so that his shadow spills over the pages of the open book. "Hey, can I get your autograph?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," the other man replies without missing a beat. "Whoever this Yumeno Gentaro is ... hm, he sounds rather pretentious."

"Geez, Gentaro is definitely not lying about being pretentious," his partner mumbles, patting down his makeshift parka pillow as he tries to make it more comfortable. "I read some of his stuff and it's, like, all this highbrow shit. Too complicated. I thought people read books for, y'know, fun. De-stressing. Not having to think too much or too hard. Instead, I always felt anxious when reading his stuff."

"I'm still surprised you actually deigned to read my works, Dice," Yumeno says, not looking up. "I'd have figured they were of no interest to you. No heart-pounding high stakes gambling, no casino heists, no thrilling carjacking or speedboat chases or anything of the sort."

Amemura crosses his arms and waggles a finger. "Now, see, that's another lie, you've definitely written some cool and exciting stuff too! You gotta take credit, where credit is due! I've read some of your books, they're so cool and interesting with the way they span so many genres! Speculative and absurdist fiction, contemporary literature, dark romanticism ... even the odd thriller and romance ..." He ticks off the genres one by one on his fingers. "And that's not even scratching the surface! It's so rare to have writers that dabble in so many different areas, when usually people just specialise in a single one ... but I guess I'm not too surprised."

That seems to catch Yumeno's attention for the first time. He smooths down the page he is reading, seemingly unfazed by how close Amemura is. "Oh? And why may that be?"

"See, I think that in order to weave convincing stories ... you gotta be great at telling lies." Amemura pauses, just for a moment. "Telling lies, and bringing your audience to whatever make-up world you imagine. It's a really impressive skill that not everyone can have."

Yumeno's hand stills on the page; at last, he looks up, fingertips brushing against the gutter of the book. "Calling someone a liar isn't very nice," he says, his voice light, conversational. "Especially not someone you've only just met."

Jakurai takes half a step forward -- but what exactly does he intend to do? He's never had any success with shutting Amemura up. Amemura grins, looking the author in the eye. "Hardly! After all ... it takes one to know one."

They hold eye contact for several moments. Finally, Yumeno lowers his head slightly and chuckles, shutting his book. "Well, this is unexpected. I'm used to my readers being rather less ..."

"Less likely to call you out? More adoring and reverent?" the young man called Dice interrupts and snorts, turning over on his bench. He's finally settled for using his parka as a makeshift blanket -- a choice Jakurai rather more approves of. Some small discomfort is a worthwhile tradeoff for not catching a cold from exposure.

Yumeno sighs. "Yes, precisely."

"I think you better get used to that," Dice says and yawns. "People tend to find that meeting their idols isn't all it's cracked up to be." He glances over his shoulder, at Jakurai and Amemura still standing there. "Look, as much as I'd like to keep chit-chatting, could you guys maybe keep it down or something? It's been a big day and I'm pooped. And dead, but also pooped."

"Apologies," Jakurai says. He reaches out; his fingers skim against Amemura's shoulder. "I think we all need some rest." To Yumeno, he nods slightly. "It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Yumeno waves his fingers, a brief and careless motion. "No need to be so formal. I'm sure our paths will cross again ... especially now that we've all found ourselves entwined in this Reapers' Game. Good evening, Jakurai-sensei."

It's only once they pass the old rail car housing the Aogaeru Tourist Information Centre, that the oddity of the statement strikes Jakurai -- not once over the course of the conversation had he given Yumeno his name. When he glances back towards the assortment of benches, around Hachiko, there's no sign of either Yumeno nor his partner. However, Jakurai can still hear Dice's voice raised in complaint, carrying even over the sound of nighttime traffic.

For several moments, Jakurai remains where he is, uncertain. Amemura stops and glances over, too, following his gaze. "Interesting lot, aren't they? Being dead isn't that bad, it doesn't suck as much as everyone thinks it does. Believe me, I know." Amemura winks at Jakurai. "I've been dead quite a while, I've met all kinds of fun people!"

Jakurai starts walking again, towards the shelter of the train station. Distantly, he can hear the howl of moving trains, the sound of their wheels rolling over the tracks. 

"It's nice that some people can carry on like everything's normal, don'cha think?" Amemura says, trying to keep pace with Jakurai. At this hour, there are few people around -- not that it matters, for the living can't even see or hear them. Most of the other players are congregated around the statue of Hachiko -- either resting from their previous ordeal, or helping distribute the food Samatoki and his partner brought back. This far away from the rest of the group, Jakurai is reasonably certain nobody will interrupt.

"Amemura-kun."

Across the road, the many giant LCD screens of Shibuya are alight with all manners of advertisements, even this late into the night. Amemura remains where he stands, watching the displays as though what they show is of great interest to him. On-screen, a model extols the virtues of a new and invigorating health supplement drink of some description. The advert fades away, giving way to another; this time, an assortment of models are clad in a fashionable array of outfits, the latest from world-renowned designer easy R's fall runway collection. The group of models gaze challengingly into the camera, the angles and planes of their faces enhanced by bold strokes of makeup. They straddle a figure seated in their midst in an ornate chair with its back to the viewer. This must be the famed designer themself, hair dyed a dark autumnal russet to match the collection. Jakurai stares at the figure a little longer, at the cut and style of their hair, at the slope of their shoulders and the shape of the hands. The image scrolls to the next one from the editorial photoshoot; this time, the designer sits alone in the middle of the picture, the chair turned to face the audience. Half the image is thrown into deep shadow, obscuring the designer's face; only their hands are visible, light falling across the fingers loosely linked in front of them. There's an elegant heading taking up the negative space to one side -- the promise of an exclusive interview with the enigmatic designer, to be featured in new issues of a highbrow fashion coffee table book. The spread is to be accompanied by never-before-seen sketches and drafts, straight from the designer's table; with behind-the-scenes backstage shots of their runway shows; rare glimpses of their Shibuya atelier where their designs come to life.

The longer Jakurai looks at the advert, the longer he's certain of it -- there's something almost familiar about the designer, but Jakurai can't quite put his finger on it. Not without seeing their face, at least -- and it's not like he's ever met easy R, anyway. His own social circle is too far removed from the glitzy, glittering sphere that easy R would orbit.

His gaze lingers long enough on the figure of the designer that it leaves a cloudy afterimage when he blinks -- and then the advert is whisked away, replaced with another facet of easy R's collection. This time it's a more pedestrian affair; smiling models in more casual, everyday wear, posed amongst foliage and earthy neutral backdrops. 

"Like what you see?" Amemura asks, still intently surveying the display. 

"Amemura-kun," Jakurai says again. His voice remains far more even than he actually feels. "About before. Why didn't you tell me about the pacts? Why didn't you forge our pact earlier?"

"Ew, are you still carrying on about that?" Amemura shoves his hands into his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels. "Man, you really are boring."

"Please answer the question, Amemura-kun."

"Hmmmm. Well," Amemura hums, drawing the word out. He pulls another lollipop out of his pocket and unwraps it, crinkling the cellophane wrapper between his fingers. "Well, think about it a little. You're a doctor, right? You're meant to save lives, right? You heard what I said before, in Roppongi. Who can you help if you're dead? Who can you save if you're dead? What can you do if you're dead? Nothing. Y'know, I really did you a favour back there, you stuffy old bore."

"We were in a position to lend our assistance," Jakurai says through his teeth. "And yet, you made me turn my back on them. You made me run. Had we forged a pact there, we could have fought, we could have held the monsters off. All those people that got erased, we could have given them a chance--"

"So this is it," Amemura says softly. "This is it, the true face of Jinguji Jakurai."

"I'm sorry," Jakurai says a little stiffly, caught of guard. "What are you talking about?"

"God complex. The desire to save anyone and everyone, regardless of whether you can or not. _Giving_ them a chance, a chance they could not have had otherwise." Amemura laces his fingers together behind his back. "Who'd have thought? By which I mean, how boringly and utterly predictable!"

The wind picks up slightly, ruffling the tail of Jakurai's coat and the ends of his hair. "That is not the point, Amemura-kun. The point is that the loss of their lives was unnecessary--"

"Aw, geez." Amemura turns around at last. "How dense can you get? You saw the message, right? The one from earlier?"

Jakurai doesn't blink. "'Reach 109. You have sixty minutes. Fail, and face erasure'."

Amemura shapes his thumb and forefinger into the shape of a gun, pointing it over his shoulder at Jakurai. "Bin~go! I'm glad your big doctor brain can figure out some simple puzzles too. Now, stay with me a little and let's keep our thinking caps on a bit longer, mmkay? So, erasure, you know what that means, right?"

When Jakurai doesn't answer, Amemura sighs and shakes his head theatrically. "We took a fair bit of time to get all the way here from Roppongi. Had you hung around back there, you'd never have made it here. What d'you think, huh?" Amemura taps a forefinger against his chin, making a show of being deep in thought. He holds up his other hand, waving two fingers. "Okay, let me put it in a way your big and boring brain can understand, then. Which would you rather happen? Would you have died trying to save the, oh, I dunno, ten or so people there? Or would you rather have made it to Shibuya on time and have the chance to help out more people here? You can't have both, because life isn't nice and fair like that."

"Lives -- human lives -- cannot be judged and weighed in such black and white ways--"

"Blah, blah, blah!" Amemura interrupts, clamping his hands over his ears. Jakurai notices his wrists are aren't quite as narrow and fine as they were all those years ago, the bones no longer outlined as harshly against the skin. "Yakkity, yakkity, yak, that's all I hear from you! Long and difficult words that make you sound so smart and deep and philosophical! I hate it! Man, I thought you were interesting than that, but who knew you were such a bore when you went into full doctor mode?"

Jakurai grabs Amemura by the shoulders, spinning him around. "Human lives aren't to be sacrificed. No life is intrinsically worth more than the other."

"Is that so?" Amemura fires back. He makes no effort to struggle against Jakurai's grip. Instead, he reaches up, and twines his fingers through Jakurai's hair. Jakurai stiffens. "What are you doing?"

Amemura ignores him. Without warning, his grip tightens and he grabs a hank of Jakurai's hair, dragging his head down and forcing Jakurai to bend to meet his eyes. Then, Amemura leans in close -- dangerously close, his forehead almost brushing against Jakurai's. "It's all very well and good to say no life is inherently worth more than another," he murmurs. "But what of the lowest of criminal scum, then? What about those that harm others? Are they worth saving too?"

_Crunch_. Amemura bites down hard on the remains of his candy, and licks his lips. When Jakurai doesn't respond, Amemura laughs, loud and sharp in the night. He lets go of Jakurai's hair; the strands slip through his fingers, skimming against his knuckles. Instead, he reaches up and curls his fingers around Jakurai's wrists, but makes no move to pull away. "Medicine is about pragmatism too, doctor," Amemura smirks. Jakurai doesn't relax his grip. "Isn't that one of the first things you learn? You can't always save everyone. What's better? Saving a few, and sacrificing many? Or sacrificing a few, and saving many? Saving a good person, or a bad person?"

"It's not about that. It's not like that. Human lives aren't bargaining chips in a game." Jakurai's knuckles are clenched so tightly they strain against his skin. Despite this, despite the shaking of his hands -- Amemura doesn't look away. He smiles at Jakurai, wide and smug and knowing.

"Aren't they?"

Before Jakurai can say anything else, he feels his phone buzzing soundlessly in his pocket; he'd turned the volume  off a long time ago, to avoid confusing the default ringtone with his pager. Towards the Hachiko statue, he can hear a faint symphony of many phones going off in a wild medley of message alerts. Amemura's plays some upbeat jingle; a snippet of a pop tune, perhaps.

"Wanna get that?" Amemura asks, not once taking his eyes off Jakurai's. 

"No. We are not done here. Our discussion is not yet over."

"Too bad, because I'm pretty done with this boring talk." Amemura slides his phone out of his pocket, brow furrowing slightly as he reads the screen. His wallpaper is something bright and pastel; the backlit glow bathes his face in pale and colourful light. He taps rapidly at the screen a few times, keying in a passcode. "'Congratulations on completing today's mission'," he reads out loud, then winks at Jakurai. "Hear that? We succeeded! Haha, yay, we all live to see another day, isn't that just great and awesome and cool!"

All around them, the massive LCD screens around the scramble crossing flicker with static and interference, advertisements fading to black. A skull logo burns itself onto the displays in a momentary flash of white and juddering colour. Some passers-by stop and point at the screens; Jakurai can hear some offhand comments about urban legends and television screens, followed by a burst of laughter. Another voice makes a crack about all-day broadcasters needing sleep, too.

While Jakurai is distracted, Amemura shakes off his hand and skips back towards the bemused crowd of players huddled around Hachiko. Jakurai watches him go, his figure thrown into momentary relief against the streets as the skull insignia flashes in and out of existence on multiple screens, before fading away to black. Amemura's shadow spills, wispy and indistinct against the pavement, even despite the glare of the lights.


	3. GIVE UP (the tuesday remix) - I lived so much life (god's gonna have to kill me twice)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On humanity, and drifting further apart from the morals of the living.  
> (And the ones left behind.)

Being dead at nineteen never really factored into any of Ichiro's plans, but it's not as bad as he thought it could've been, either. 

For one thing, it's a lot less _final_ than he was led to believe it would be. For another -- just like his animes and his video games -- he gets to be a reaper, too. That's cool. That's pretty damn cool.

It's still not quite as cool as he thought it would be, though; for starters, he doesn't get issued with a flaming sword with which to reap the souls of the dead and cut down errant wandering spirits trying to free themselves from the Underground. Hell, he doesn't even get a cool jacket or anything, to symbolise how he's supposed to be overseeing the Ikebukuro district. In fact, there's rather less fanfare and bells and whistles than he thought being a reaper entailed. More than anything else, Ichiro is still slightly put out by the fact that he doesn't get a bankai. What point is there to being a reaper if he doesn't get a bankai, anyway? 

Even without the bankai, Ichiro can't help but feel slightly let down by how ... anticlimactic the entire affair is. Back when he'd died and played the Reapers' Game himself, his mind had been set on one goal: win the Game, return to life, and go back to looking after his brothers and watching them grow up. That's all he ever really wanted out of the whole thing. Just his luck, that he hadn't done quite well enough to win -- but just well enough to be offered the chance to be a reaper. It seemed like a good compromise at the time; he couldn't return, but at the same time, it wasn't like he was erased or banished to the void forever. After all the carry-on, after an agonising week of being able to see his younger brothers trying to puzzle their way through life without him -- it's just anticlimactic to know he can still walk through the streets of Ikebukuro, to know that he can still interact with the Realground to an extent. 

If Ichiro tries hard enough, he can almost trick himself into believing he never died.

He doesn't go to see his brothers, though; he can't do that to them, not now, not after they've finally moved on and accepted that he's gone. He's lost track of how long he's spent in the Underground at this point, how long he's spent as a reaper; it could be a month or even a year, for all he knows. The days seems to flow differently in the Underground, or maybe it's just because he's dead and constantly living on borrowed time now. Either way, it doesn't stop him from feeling an odd pang of loss in his chest when he sees his brothers going about their daily business; while it's not like years and years have passed since he died, he can't help but feel like he's missed out on watching Jiro and Saburo grow up. Both his younger brothers look older than he remembers -- Jiro's broader in the shoulders now, the line of his jaw sharper with the loss of some baby fat. He's also taken to letting his hair grow out a little longer, the ends brushing against his chin and shoulders. He's in dire need of a haircut; Ichiro would give anything to seize Jiro in a headlock and ruffle his hair, messing up what he knows his brother has taken care -- and the better part of an hour -- to arrange into purposeful and orderly disarray. Saburo's gotten taller as well; he must have hit a growth spurt recently, now lanky in the way Ichiro remembers Jiro being just a few years ago. He's even taken to accessorising a little, favouring things Ichiro used to like; trendy chokers, pins and badges that alternate by the day. Ichiro hopes he's still studying hard, acing all his tests and assignments. Saburo's always been the more book-smart one out of the three of them, anyway.

God, he misses them.

In a way, he supposes it isn't that bad of a tradeoff; as a reaper, he doesn't have to be completely dead and gone and unable to even watch over his brothers, to keep an eye on them and ensure they're staying out of trouble and not following too closely in his footsteps. He can still hang out in the city he's known and loved all his life; the icing on the cake is not having to miss a single episode of all his favourite shows. 

Yeah, he'll take it. Being a reaper isn't that bad at all, profound lack of bankai notwithstanding. Perhaps if he ever meets the Composer, he'll bring it up with Them.

There are some downsides to the situation too, of course. That's always the case; it's just how things work.

Ichiro hasn't been a reaper long enough to have overseen a lot of games. It's an interesting enough experience, if he tries to angle it that way; different people react differently to finding out they're dead, to finding out they have a second chance. Some take it well enough and don't question too much; others scream and cry and plead and beg, citing things like unfinished business, like family or friends or lovers waiting for them. How they're too young to die, how they're not ready to die and need to get back, now.

Oh, yeah. Ichiro is familiar with that, all right.

He hasn't been a reaper long enough to have overseen a lot of games, but everything starts to sound the same after a while. Everyone always says the same things. Given the stress of the game, players get mouthy often. Sometimes, they complain about the difficulty of the missions -- which is such a joke, because they're competing for the chance to be alive again. In Ichiro's opinion, it's a pretty worthwhile prize to be fighting for.

"Why've you gotta get in our way like this?" a player asks him on the second day of the current game. "You have no idea how hard it is! What we're going through, with the time limits, and all the noise attacking us at every turn! And now you wanna fight us too?"

Ichiro takes a step forward, fingers curling into fists. "You thought it was gonna be easy? You think you're the only one who's had to go through tough times, who's had to suffer?"

The player stares blankly back at him, mouth agape. Ichiro takes another step, grabbing at one of the pins on his jacket. It heats up at his touch, the psych ready to be activated; he's only ever used it a handful of times, because the idea of creating more noise to attack players isn't one that sits right with him. "You think you're the only one who's had to leave people behind? You never stopped to think about the fact that, hey, some of the players that got erased before they could even complete the first mission yesterday, they never even got a chance to fight for the chance to see their loved ones again?"

Before Ichiro can say anything else, a senior reaper intervenes. He's tall and slim, clad in an immaculate dark suit, polished dress shoes, and sleek red leather gloves -- the very image of a stereotypical contemporary reaper, bureaucratic trappings and all. In Ichiro's opinion, the only thing he's missing is a scythe -- or whatever it is that modern reapers would use. Perhaps a tablet computer, with which to review the dead's deeds in life? A shiny black smartphone in which he logs the names and causes of deaths of people scheduled to die? Or maybe even a briefcase and cellphone, a corporate warrior's sword and shield.

"You'll have to pardon my colleague," Iruma Juto says with a smile that Ichiro knows all too well -- pleasant enough, but dangerous nonetheless. There is nothing remotely friendly or benign about his smile, as much as Juto would like to think otherwise; seeing it always sets Ichiro's teeth on edge. "He's new to the job."

"Shut up, I am not," Ichiro growls; Juto ignores him.

"Now, you ask why we need to, what was it? Get in your way like this? The rules are simple," Juto continues smoothly, folding his hands behind his back. Ichiro knows that the way he stands, the way he angles his head -- it's just perfect for the light to glare off his glasses and obscure his eyes. For someone who seems so rigid and stuffy at first glance, Juto has a slight flair for the dramatic. He pushes his glasses up by the bridge; they flash in the light. "Now, let us review: you play the game, and you get everything you wish for -- to return to your loved ones, to pick up where you left off. That is," he adds, moving his head slightly -- again, just enough for the player to catch the most fleeting glimpse of his eyes. They are a flat and cold pale grey. "That is, provided if you succeed. If we allowed just about anyone to return to life just because they wanted to, we'd be out of a job ... and I suppose all the significance and meaning would be gone from this entire affair, and we most certainly can't have _that_." He taps at the inside of his wrist with his index finger, the dial of his watch just peeking past the hem of his sleeve. "If you have time to argue, don't you think you have time to figure out what today's mission means?"

The player opens his mouth to argue; Juto's smile broadens. "My mistake. Clearly the missions have been too easy, if you have the luxury of standing around and whining about how tough you have it." His fingers hover over his tie pin. "What will it be, then? What would you prefer to fight?" He tilts his head to the side; the fringe of his hair shifts, falling over his eyes. "A house rhino? Or perhaps even a swing shark? I'm feeling generous, so I'll let you decide."

The player beats a hasty retreat after that, not bothering to reply. Ichiro scowls and sets off after the player, hands shoved into his pockets and hood pulled over his head. 

"Not even a 'thank you' for doing your job for you?" Juto asks, falling into step alongside him. "My, my, brats these days really have no manners." He shakes his head sadly, voice taking on a mournful tone. "No respect for their seniors at all."

"I respect seniors who do their jobs well and with pride," Ichiro says through his teeth. "Not half-baked seniors looking for any excuse to shirk duties or ignore the rules." He rounds a corner; the player is long gone. Juto makes a soft, impatient hiss through his teeth.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that. One day, you'll learn the importance of being pragmatic."

"If that's what I have to look forwards to when I'm your age, you can count me the hell out."

Juto only smirks at that. "It only goes downhill from here, brat. Make your younger years count while you can. So, what did you think?"

Ichiro gives him a sidelong glance. "Of what?"

The heels of Juto's dress shoes click against the pavement. "Remember what I told you the other day? I was thinking of developing a little good cop, bad cop act." He gazes skywards, touching his fingertips to his temple. "Who knew it'd come to me playing the role of good cop? I think I'm rolling in my grave. Hell, if I roll any faster, I'll uncover the secret of perpetual motion."

"You. Good cop." Ichiro snorts. "Now I know you're talking shit. I'm pretty sure the role of good cop  _isn't_ to threaten people into compliance."

"And you'd call yourself the good cop in that situation?" Juto titters softly. "Losing your temper on people won't win you any favours, either. You'll never have any luck convincing anyone to give you anything or do anything you want, with an attitude like that."

 The toe of Ichiro's sneakers drags over the ground; he stumbles a little. "Look, I just. I had a bad ... moment. That player brought up some unpleasant memories."

"Here's a little word of advice, from your half-baked senior." Ichiro doesn't need to look at Juto to know the other man is wearing a shit-eating grin. "You'll never make it far if you keep holding on to the past. Not as a reaper, hoping for promotion to being an officer. Not as an officer, one day dreaming of becoming the Conductor. Not as the Conductor, vying to become the Composer. Not if you want to move on, and even become ... well." Juto's voice trails off a little and Ichiro finds himself slowing down slightly. "Something else entirely."

"Oh my god." Ichiro drags a hand through his hair, messing it up. He walks faster, picking up the pace again. "Stop trying to be all upstanding and cryptic to me, because it won't work. I know what you're like. Anyway, what's the point of your whole good cop, bad cop spiel?"

"Glad you asked," Juto says crisply. "Take it from me -- it always works like a charm to get people to do what you want."

"I don't want anything from them." They pass by a yakitori stand; Ichiro cranes his neck as they walk by, gazing longingly at the skewers. They're in a hurry, though --- the deadline for the second mission is approaching fast; they're supposed to be tracking the players and their progress, in order compile and relay reports to the Conductor. It's just his luck, Ichiro thinks and groans out loud. He gets homework even when he's dead, too. Just another injustice that is the reality of being a reaper.

Juto sighs with an air of long-suffering patience. "We want the players to take part in our glorious Composer's glorious Game, to enact Their glorious Plan," he says. Out of the corner of his eye, Ichiro can see him pushing his glasses further up his nose. "I don't expect a brat like you to understand, of course. How long have you been a reaper now? One month? Two?"

Ichiro puffs out his chest a little. "Long enough to have made harrier."

" _Junior_ harrier," Juto corrects with a smirk. "You're not even strong or experienced enough to hide your wings."

Despite himself, Ichiro glances reflexively at Juto's back. The other reaper is right; the wings that curve out behind his suit jacket are small and compact, as slender and sharp-edged as their owner. In contrast, Ichiro's own jut from his shoulders, large and heavy and ungainly. "Yeah, yeah," he grumbles, coming to a stop as the lights at an intersection turn red. "I'm getting there. How long have you been at this gig, anyway?"

Juto smiles a small, lopsided smile as he jaywalks across the road. The setting sun glints orange off the facets of his collar-pins. "Long enough," he says. "Try to keep up, Yamada."

"Sure, sure," Ichiro says; after a moment's hesitation, he hurries after Juto just as the pedestrian crossing light changes colour.

They watch the second mission unfold from their vantage point atop the Sunshine 60 building. Ichiro's legs dangle over the edge; the wind howls in his ears, buffeting at his hair and clothes. Next to him, Juto lights a cigarette and takes a long, steady drag.

"You gonna share, or what?" Ichiro asks.

Juto chuckles as he tucks his lighter back into one of his pockets. "Hardly. Smoking is bad for your health, young Yamada."

"I'm also dead," Ichiro points out.

"Fine, then. Let me put another spin to this." Juto breathes in, his hand casting a long and irregular shadow over his face. "You're underage."

Ichiro barks out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. "Yeah? And since when did you give a shit about things like that?"

"Far be it from me to break the law," Juto says, exhaling a plume of smoke. It coils momentarily around his lips, dissipating into the wind.

"As if you ever cared about the law," Ichiro mutters out of the corner of his mouth. Either Juto doesn't hear, or he pretends not to. 

In silence, they watch a horde of noise attacking the players. Even though he's seen noise many times, even though he's fought them many times, Ichiro still isn't sure if he's used to them; seeing rampaging animals overrunning the streets of Tokyo and mingling through the crowds of unaware living pedestrians will never become an common and unremarkable sight to him. "Y'know," he begins, trailing off as he watches a player get erased by a pack of wolves. "Y'know, it never gets easier."

"Hm?"

"Watching this. Watching people get erased. Watching them effectively die again."

"They'd don't--" Juto cuts himself off before he can continue. "Well. Yes."

"How do you live with yourself? Knowing you can step in and help them anytime, but you don't. We're reapers, man. We can make the noise, we can make them do what we want. What's the point of putting players through all this? Of giving them the chance to live again, only for them to die again?"

Juto chuckles, taking another puff from his cigarette. "You're sharper than you look, brat. And a real bleeding heart. How did you even survive the game well enough to become a reaper?"

"I put my all into everything."

"You could start by putting your all into this job," Juto points out. The end of his cigarette glows red-hot in the twilight. "What makes you think there's no point to doing what we do as reapers?"

Ichiro glances at him. "You mean there is?"

Juto tuts under his breath. "Of course there is. You think the Composer does this for, what's the term you kids these days like to use? For yolos? For shits and giggles?"

It's almost enough to make Ichiro choke. "Please don't say that crap ever again. Tell you what, I'll pay you to not try and act hip."

"Act hip? Brat, I've been hip since before you were born." Juto snickers; the end of his cigarette bobs in his mouth. "It's what you get for asking difficult questions."

"I guess." Ichiro tilts his head back, rolling his shoulders. "Hey, answer this, then. As my senior. Does it get easier?"

Juto quirks an eyebrow. "Does what get easier? The stuff you said? Living with myself and what I have to do as a reaper?"

Ichiro slouches further, shoulders tense. "Yeah."

"Hmm," Juto hums again, considering. 

"How long have you been a reaper?"

His only answer is a laugh. "You're not finding out how old I am, Yamada."

Ichiro pulls his legs up, so they no longer dangle off the edge of the roof of the Sunshine 60. He rests his chin on one of his knees. "It's not right."

"You're a reaper, Yamada. You know the rules. Or," Juto says, voice almost indistinct in the wind, "would you rather be erased outright?"

"What?"

"You heard me. C'mon, I know you're a smart kid, you can put two and two together. No greenhorn would've made it to harrier that quickly, unless they had brains and talent. Would you rather not being able to even do so much as watch over your loved ones?" Juto asks, so soft Ichiro almost can't hear him. "You get that much. That's more than what most players can say."

Ichiro grits his teeth as he looks down at the street, at the noise pursuing the players. "I know." 

The silence between them is stiff and heavy, broken only by the howling of the wind and the distant sounds of traffic far below. Ichiro does up the buttons of his letterman jacket. Juto, on the other hand, is no longer watching the proceedings on the streets; instead he's checking his phone, presumably tracking the progress of the second mission.

"Interesting," he says.

Ichiro tears his eyes away from the sight of a flock of giant bats swooping around a small huddle of players, flying in ever-tightening circles over them. "Interesting? What is it, got something to share?"

"Nothing." Juto says, locking his screen before Ichiro can get a better look. "Just a little note from the Conductor."

That piques Ichiro's interest. He checks his own phone, the wallpaper a momentary flash as he unlocks the screen. It's the same wallpaper he was using when he was still alive -- a picture of himself, Jiro, and Saburo on their last summer vacation together. It was the year Ichiro died; they'd gone to the beach for the first time in what felt like forever. In the photo, Saburo was pouting, buried neck-deep in a sand monument that Jiro had gleefully sculpted in the shape of a voluptuous mermaid with a magnificent honking pair of breasts. Jiro roared his head off with laughter in the background, silhouetted by the setting sun sparkling off the waves; the photo had been taken just moments before his popsicle melted off its stick and fell onto his face. Ichiro was the one taking the photo, selfie stick held at an awkward angle in an attempt to fit as much of Saburo's mermaid body into the frame as possible. They were all smiling, young and carefree and completely unaware of just what would change in the next few months, and how much.

Ichiro allows himself a few wistful moments to relive the memory -- before he remembers what he's supposed to be checking for. His notifications are empty; he hasn't received any messages or bulletins from the Conductor. He shakes his phone a little, as though that'd improve the reception. "You sure? What did it say?"

"Oh, just a personal heads-up." Juto says airily. He's tapping at something that looks like a navigation or tracking app and peers at it, thoughtful. "Ah, I see that the Conductor means now. This will be an interesting game."

"What? What?" Ichiro taps around his home screen as well, trying to find an app that looks like the one Juto is using. Since becoming a reaper, he's started finding all kinds of weird apps appearing on his phone. "Hey, what gives? You got some kinda special app? And why does the Conductor message you privately?"

"Why, of course." Juto waggles a finger, then taps the side of his nose knowingly. "You have to be good at your job and have served a long time in order to have texting privileges with the Conductor. Don't worry, you'll get there someday."

"This Conductor," Ichiro begins and stops, uncertain. He doesn't know why he's asking, especially when the Conductor seems so distant and far-removed from himself. He's never even met the guy, and given what he knows of the man, it's highly unlikely he ever will. In all his time as a reaper, he has never once seen the Conductor; he'd almost be able to believe the entity is an urban myth, maybe some sort of elaborate prank or long-carrying hazing ritual by the other reapers. He wouldn't put it past them, to give him homework and have him writing reports about players as part of his initiation to being a harrier. "So, what's the Conductor like?"

There's only one thing that convinces him the Conductor is real. Ichiro remembers the end of his week of playing the Reaper's Game, and meeting a monstrous noise creature in the heart of Shibuya. It called itself a messenger of the Conductor, and Ichiro had been been disinclined to believe otherwise; he's seen more than enough anime and read enough manga to know that foxes were always messengers of the gods, in some way or another.

"The Conductor, huh," Juto repeats musingly. "I don't really know, myself."

"But you're an officer."

"That doesn't mean anything. Nobody has ever seen the Conductor. Nobody knows who the Conductor really is. He's an elusive guy, likes to communicate only in writing and through proxies. His messengers," Juto adds, emphasising the last word. 

"Then how are you supposed to move upwards? How can anyone hope to become the next Conductor or Composer, if they don't even know who and what they're fighting?"

Juto plucks his cigarette out of his mouth and drops it, crushing it beneath the heel of his shoes. "Interesting theory. Who said you have to fight them in order to move up higher?"

Ichiro meets his eyes. "Isn't that always the case? You never played video games before, where the only way to move upwards is to fight the boss and take their place?"

After a moment, Juto laughs. "Do you have grand designs on being Conductor yourself, Yamada? That's very ambitious of you. You weren't kidding when you said you put your all into everything."

Something about his phrasing leaves a sinking feeling in Ichiro's gut -- but he's worked with Juto enough to know that no further information will be forthcoming. Thankfully, his own phone rings then, an incoming message tone. He checks the alert, then gets to his feet. The sixty storey drop stretches beneath him, dizzying even after all the times he's spent up atop the Sunshine 60. Juto takes a step forward, the tip of his dress shoes creeping over the edge.

"Second mission's just ended. Let's roll," Ichiro says, and jumps.

.

As higher-ranked reapers, they're not technically supposed to interact directly with players; to that end, Ichiro and Juto take to camping out in the cafe that overlooks the scramble crossing. Perhaps _camping out_ isn't quite the right term to use;  _lurking_ would be more apt -- more accurately, they're two decidedly dead and otherworldly people lurking uninvited amongst the living. Juto sips at what must be his fifth cup of black coffee; it almost makes Ichiro feel a little sheepish about his own choice in drink, but he's always had a fondness for frappes. Java chip, in particular, has always been his favourite.

"That's them, huh?" he asks, squinting. It'd been too dark the night before to get a good look at the players when they'd completed the first mission; for some reason, they seem to have opted for using Hachiko as a muster point. 

"Indeed."

Ichiro jumps at the sound of the voice -- an unfamiliar man wearing a kimono and hakama slides into the recently-vacated seat next to Ichiro. His face is obscured by a mask -- a traditional fox mask, painted with red and white. He sets a steaming cup of green tea down in front of him. "Um," Ichiro says, cautious. Another reaper? Or a living person, unusually attuned to the Underground? "Uh--"

"This is Phantom," Juto says, and nods a greeting to the other man. "I don't think you two have met." He pauses, exchanging a look with the other reaper.

Ichiro raises his brows at the silent interaction between them. Though he's heard of the odd reaper here and there taking on and using an alias instead of their real name, this is the first time he's actually met one. Juto's eyes flick towards him and narrow near imperceptibly, as though challenging Ichiro to laugh. If he thinks Ichiro's going to laugh -- well, he's got another thing coming. Perhaps Ichiro should start thinking of an alternative name of his own -- it'll make do nicely in place of not having a bankai or zanpakuto. It's a pity he hasn't met Phantom before; Ichiro's now certain he's missed out on a whole host of cool things he could have done as a reaper, including but not limited to wearing a cool mask. It's as close as he'd be able to get to being a real-life Hollowfied reaper; the only thing he'd be missing then is a zanpakuto.

"Don't mind him." The sound of Juto's voice yanks Ichiro out of his momentary reverie. "He's just an eccentric who likes things to be all cloak-and-dagger." To the masked reaper, he says, "a name's just a name, Phantom."

"Names are power," Phantom says. Juto snorts. "But I just like my privacy. Is that too much to ask?" To Ichiro, he adds, "just think of me as another one of your seniors. Hmm ... Shibuya division officer, if you will."

"That's--" Juto cuts himself off, meeting Phantom's eyes. "Yes, yes, of course."

"I ... I see. Good evening, Phantom-senpai." Ichiro bows his head awkwardly. "It's an honour."

The other reaper waves a dismissive hand. "Oh, no need for the formality, Just Phantom is fine. So, before I so rudely interrupted you -- what do you two think of this week's players?"

"Um," Ichiro says again, turning his attention back to the group loitering around Hachiko's statue. He worries at his frappe straw with his teeth, scanning the faces.

The new ones are a varied bunch -- Ichiro spots a tall man in army fatigue pants, his build lean and powerful; next to him and sporting a murderous glower is a white-haired man chainsmoking his way through a pack of cigarettes. Just past the pair and trying to look inconspicuous at the fringe of the crowd is a salaryman, wringing the cord of his identity card in his hands; next to him, a man in a flashy suit cracks loud jokes to a woman wearing an army fatigue jacket with bandages on her arm. There's even a doctor, staring straight ahead and deep in thought.

All in all, a very respectable crowd. If anything, the median age of this week's group of players seems to be higher than some of the ones Ichiro has seen recently. 

There's a shock of blue and yellow in the crowd; Ichiro almost misses them in his first pass of the group. When he stops to take a better look, his heart skips a beat and he flinches, almost sending his near-empty cup flying into the window.

Huddled amongst the small crowd are Jiro and Saburo, arms crossed and pointedly looking away from each other, both deep in what Ichiro knows is a sulk. A sulk that only he could have mediated. His heart rises painfully in his chest, lodging in his throat. He jumps to his feet, chair skidding out behind him. "I. I have to go. I have to get down there."

He turns on his heel and manages to take one step before Phantom speaks. "I'd advise against hasty action if I were you," he says. Ichiro chances a glance back. The masked reaper is staring at the players across the crossing, chin resting on his steepled fingers. "You know we, as reapers, cannot directly interfere in the Game."

"I don't give a shit about the Game," Ichiro grits out. "They're my brothers. Are you kidding me? They're too young to be here. They shouldn't be here."

"Death comes for everyone," Phantom replies. His masked face is reflected against the glass windowpane, still and unmoving. "I'm sure you know that better than some. Yamada Ichiro, newly-minted harrier reaper, frozen at the age of nineteen. Please, do sit down."

"But--"

"Think of it this way, then." Phantom straightens, folding his hands in front of him."Your brothers are dead. Would you really jeopardise their one and only chance to return? To be alive and well again? You fought hard to return for their sake, too. Would you rather they be erased?"

Although Ichiro's already known what it means, hearing it spelt out for him knocks the breath out of his lungs. He sits down heavily in his chair, elbows resting on his knees; frustrated, he digs his knuckles into his forehead.

Next to him, Juto claps him on the shoulder. "The best thing you can do for them is to do your job well," he says and stands. 

Phantom does, too, tucking his arms into his voluminous kimono sleeves. "I hate to part on such a note, but my partner is waiting for me to return -- I slipped away while his back was turned."

_Partner?_ Ichiro is momentarily distracted enough to latch on to the word. Technically, as a harrier, he's supposed to be partnered with another like him, though according to Juto they haven't had any harrier promotions for months -- leaving Ichiro to be stuck under Juto's supervision. It's just as well that Juto's pretty relaxed, a far as officers go -- perhaps even too relaxed. Hearing Phantom's words brings the question back: do officers require partners as well? He's certainly never seen Juto with one.

While he's pondering that -- and the fates of his brothers -- both reaper officers depart. They leave Ichiro sitting alone in the cafe overlooking the crossing, with nothing but his thoughts for company. By his elbow, Phantom's tea is still untouched. Steam coils from the top of the cup in pale, wispy trails; a single slender stem bobs vertically at the surface of the brew.

.

Screw the rules. The rules were never written with the possibility that a reaper's own family would end up having to play the Game, too. 

Ichiro tails Jiro and Saburo for a few hours, watching as they work their way through finding dinner and buying equipment. He watches as they wander from one convenience store to another; mostly it's Jiro that leads the way, then getting angry when the shop staff aren't able to see them. Saburo stays silent on the most part -- that is, until they hit their third convenience store failure.

"You have to look out for the shops with the reaper decal, stupid," Saburo bursts out at last, seemingly no longer able to bear watching Jiro screw up with leading the way. "When will you ever listen to me?"

"Shut up," Jiro snaps. "I'm older, so I'm right! I know better because I've been around the block longer!"

"I'm pretty sure it doesn't work that way," Saburo says under his breath. "You've only been around the block so many times because you're too dumb to know the way." Thankfully Jiro doesn't seem to hear; it's a good thing he's preoccupied with finding a shop that will accept them.

In the end and after another ten minutes and two stores' worth of failed attempts, he grudgingly concedes to letting Saburo lead the way; Ichiro breathes out a sigh of relief when it finally happens. It's late by the time they find a convenience store with the reaper decals -- almost approaching midnight. It's almost enough to make Ichiro break cover; it's unbearable to know his brothers haven't eaten yet and are still wandering around looking for provisions, this late in the night.

For another ten or so minutes, Ichiro watches his brothers loiter around the store, trying to decide on food. Seeing them attempting to budget finally pushes him over the edge; he vaults over a street-side planter filled with dense shrubbery and charges into the convenience store, the doors ringing with a cheery jingle when he enters. 

Jiro's head whips around sharply at the noise. He takes one look at Ichiro and his eyes widen. Ichiro freezes in place. This isn't quite how he planned for their reunion to go. What's he supposed to say? What's he going to do? Given the fact that he's been dead for a while now, a 'hey, long time no see' probably wouldn't be wholly appropriate.

Before he can say anything, Jiro takes a step back. "R-reaper!"

Ichiro stops dead in his tracks, the tearful smile fading off his face. "What?" he blurts out before he can stop himself -- but he already knows the answer. Right, of course, he's not a strong and experienced enough reaper to hide his wings; they arch out on either side of him, broad and unwieldly. "Hey, it's m--" Seeing Jiro's face, shocked and uncomprehending and taut with fear and hostility, the words wither and die in his throat. 

Before this, had anyone asked Ichiro if anything hurt as much as dying, as much as the knowledge that he'd left his brothers behind, he'd have said no. Now, he knows that's not the case. 

What hurts more is being forgotten.

The realisation settles into the pit of his stomach like a leaden weight. Of course. Indirectly, he was their entrance fee. Or at least, the memories of him. 

Ichiro doesn't quite know how to feel about that -- the fact that the most valuable thing both his brothers cherished above all else were their memories of him, the fact that they had to forsake those memories in order to be given the chance to live again. He glances skywards -- or at the conbini ceiling, at least -- and shuts his eyes. The Composer has a cruel sense of humour.

When he meets that bastard, whoever They are, he's going to punch Them in the fucking face -- hierarchy be damned.

"W-what do you want!" Jiro's voice breaks Ichiro out of his momentary reverie. His younger brother gazes around wildly, trying not to take his eyes off Ichiro at the same time. "Saburo! O-oi! Hey! Where you at?"

"Getting the chocolate milk like you asked me to, idiot. Do we even have enough money for that? We still haven't even bought equipment or medicine, so if we die because of your terrible budgeting skills I'm gonna be mad," Saburo grumbles, emerging from another aisle. He takes one look at both Ichiro and Jiro, and almost drops his armful of groceries. "Wh-what's going on?!"

"Shut up and get behind me," Jiro snaps, trying to shuffle sideways to stand in front of Saburo at the same time. "God, use that smartass brain of yours for something that isn't academics for once, won't you?!" He grabs at one of the pins he's stuck onto the brim of his snapback, fumbling a little. "Get outta here, I'll try to hold him off."

Saburo digs his heels in. "I'm not going anywhere. We're partners! Brothers! We gotta stick together!"

"Fat lotta good that's gonna do if both of us die here, dumbass!" Jiro yells, voice rising in his panic. Saburo grabs hold of his shoulder.

"You're the dumbass! Look at him, look at the size of his wings! He's a reaper, you think you can take him on alone?"

Jiro squares his shoulders, lowering into a fighting stance with his pin clenched in his fist. With a pang, Ichiro recognises it as the beginning of one of the feints he taught Jiro, back when the latter was still in middle school. "Just-- just go, Saburo, stop arguing with me for once in your life and read the situation!"

"No, _you_ read the situation!" Saburo snaps, voice breaking with the tension. "The entire point of the mission yesterday was to find a partner, and you know what that means? Use your brain! It means you can't survive without a partner here anyway, so there's no point even if I run. If we get erased, we'll get erased together!"

Ichiro holds up his hands, trying to stop them from shaking. He hopes Jiro and Saburo can't hear the way his voice catches, the way he suddenly has to blink rapidly to stop himself from tearing up. "Woah, woah, easy there, you two. Time out. There's not going to be any erasing here, not on my watch. Because I'm ... I'm ... off duty. H-heh, yeah."

"Off duty," Jiro repeats, still regarding him suspiciously, refusing to relax from his fighting stance. To Ichiro, he looks like a small dog trying to make itself look more intimidating in order to fend off a larger attacker. "Do reapers even have scheduled working hours?"

"This one does." Ichiro tries to smile. He tucks his hands into his pockets, leaning his weight against his back foot. "C'mon, reapers get hungry too, y'know."

That doesn't do anything to mollify Jiro; if anything, his brother looks even more wary. "You didn't answer my question from earlier. What the hell do you want?"

Ichiro raises his brows. "Hey, I was just passing by on my way to get a midnight snack. And it looked like you were having trouble carrying everything you were going to buy, so I, uh, decided to help." He shrugs, spreading his hands; he's well aware of how flimsy his excuse sounds "Me, I'm a helpful sorta guy."

"You're also a reaper," Saburo points out, ducking to the side before Jiro can elbow him to keep quiet. "I don't know if it was very helpful of you to send noise to erase us."

"Shut up," Jiro hisses, trying to flatten the back of his hand over Saburo's mouth. "I thought you were supposed to be smart! Stop trying to piss him off!"

"Oh, yeah, right, like you're one to talk--"

"Not my division," Ichiro replies. It's technically true; today's mission objective wasn't completed in Ikebukuro. "Besides, what makes you think reapers aren't friendly and helpful? You met a lot of wall reapers and the like along the way, didn't'cha? C'mon, even you guys hafta admit they were pretty chill kinda dudes. 'Sides, I can't do anything." He holds up his hands, and points at the pins on his jacket. "I can't fight you guys directly, and I'm not creating any noise. See?"

"I .. guess." Jiro's shoulders relax slightly. Ichiro feels a small flutter of hope in his chest.

"Cool. Anyway, what were you thinking of buying? We can pool our purchases."

That immediately puts Jiro back on guard. "Uh ... why?"

Ichiro fumbles with his wallet. "Uhh, because ... because I have a discount at this chain and they give me points and stamps if I spend above a certain amount! Look!" Victorious, he fishes out the card, brandishing it in Jiro's face. "C'mon, I'm hungry too. Take your pick. I want that sick discount. I'm a couple thousand yen off my next voucher."

"If you say so," Jiro mutters. His expression is mutinous, surly; it's almost enough to make Ichiro reach out and ruffle Jiro's hair -- though he knows this time it'll have the opposite effect to the one it's always had. Jiro straightens, jabbing his index finger at Ichiro "Listen up! I don't know what you think you're playing at, but I ain't dumb enough to fall for a trick like that. We don't wanna be in your debt, you hear?"

Saburo clears his throat. "What my idiot brother means," he says coolly -- in contrast to the furious, confused heat in Jiro's voice, he does an admirable job of sounding neutral. Out of the corner of his eye, Ichiror can see Saburo tread on Jiro's foot before the latter can say anything else. "We don't want any trouble. We'll pay you back for what we owe." 

Ichiro holds his hands up. "Woah, woah, chill out a bit, won't you? It's just ..." He glances at the items they're carrying -- some egg sandwiches, a bag of chips, a pack of Pocky, instant ramen, and a large carton of chocolate milk. It's almost enough to make him want to give them both a flick on the forehead in reprimand for their poor eating habits. He'd like to think he's brought them up better than that. "What's with the serious faces? It's just some conbini food, you're blowing this way outta proportion." Waving both hands, he ushers them away. "Shoo, shoo, hurry up and pick what you want. I'm gonna get my stuff, meet me at the cashier when you're ready, yeah?"

"Uh," is all Jiro manages before Sabura kicks him in the back of the knees to catch his attention. 

Ichiro watches as Jiro and Saburo retreat some distance to have some sort of hushed conference, which results in both returning most of their chosen items back to the shelves. Ichiro tries to ignore them and picks up a shopping basket, weaving through the aisles; there's no way he's forgotten what both his brothers have always liked to eat. If they won't accept his help upfront, too bad; they're getting it anyway. 

Saburo's jaw drops once they meet at the counter -- Ichiro's basket is almost overflowing with snacks and provisions, both healthy as well as slightly less so, just for a treat; both Jiro and Saburo are holding a single item each. Ichiro ignores the exchange of furtive glances and even more furtive elbowing going on behind him as he pays for the entire lot, then leads the way out of the shop. Once they've exited, he turns around and dumps the bulging bags in Jiro and Saburo's hands, before extricating a single melonpan for himself.

"What gives?" Jiro yelps, bags held at arm's length as though they're full of explosives that're about to blow up in his face. Saburo fidgets uncertainly and says, "uh, no, we can't accept this."

"I just like buying things," Ichiro lies, tucking his wallet pack into his back pocket. "Eat up, you guys have gotta be the youngest and scrawniest players I've ever seen. How're you gonna complete missions and fight noise if all it takes to knock you over is a stiff breeze?"

"Why're you helping us?" Saburo asks before Jiro has time to get outraged, both arms weighed down by his shopping bags. "You're a reaper! You're meant to be, I don't know, making life difficult for us!"

Ichiro bends slightly at the waist, so he can look Saburo squarely in the eye. He barely has to lean over now -- that's how much Saburo has grown. "Let's just say, I wanna see you two succeed, okay? It gets old sometimes, erasing players all the time. Everyone has favourites, ya know?"

"What?"

"You know, like in the races, or betting, that kinda stuff." Ichiro winks at Jiro, and tries to keep his voice as even as possible. "Everyone has their favourite horse, or dog, or team, whatever. You two are ... uh, you two remind me of my younger brothers." This time, he lets his voice waver, lets his real feelings finally break through. "I miss the hell outta them every day, and my biggest regret is not being able to help them through anything that may be troubling them, and having the chance to be there and see them grow up." He straightens and turns around; he's proud of how steady his voice is staying, despite his eyes finally betraying his emotions. "So ... you punks'll have to do for now. Don't let me down, ya hear?"

"Uh," Jiro says, not very eloquently. He looks away first, rubbing the back of his head. "Th-thanks. I guess."

Ichiro waves over his shoulder as he goes. Behind him, he can hear the sound of a single footstep. "Wait!" Saburo calls out, and Ichiro nearly stops and runs back. "Wait. Uh. Mr. Reaper. We didn't get your name."

He debates a little, How much would be safe to divulge? He's never really thought about entrance fees before, or the depth and level to which they extend. Perhaps it won't hurt; after all, they're supposed to have forgotten him entirely. "Ichiro," he says at last. "I'm Ichiro."

"Hey, wait--" Jiro starts to say. Ichiro leaps over a park bench, and breaks into a run.


	4. GIVE UP (the wednesday remix) - I want to be known for my hits (not just my misses)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On preparations, and then moving on.

If there's one thing Juto has learnt, it's that working as an enforcement officer isn't all that different regardless of whether he's dead or not.

It's sometimes a little embarrassing to look back upon his early days as a cadet in the police academy -- he used to be so bright-eyed and fresh-faced and full of youthful vigour and idealism. Back then, his twenty-year-old self was still filled with all sorts of idiotic ideals about helping people, of being a hero in microcosm.

Yeah, right. 

That's what he tells people, anyway, back when his old classmates in university are still bemusedly skirting around the topic of why he chose law enforcement as a career. Even now, years after they've all graduated and gone their separate ways, he can still see the questions in their eyes, the questions nobody feels like asking him outright. At least he can always see those questions coming; at least it's always easy to dispel them when he buys another round of drinks at one of their izakaya reunions.

Juto doesn't know the truth himself; perhaps he'd simply been bored at the time. Bored of the hours spent poring over books and lecture notes, bored of the constant race to being top of his class and top in his year, bored of the prospect of a future as a beleaguered salaryman, counting down the hours until he can go home and pass out in bed. At least being a police officer means he gets to go out of the office every now and then.

The thrill of the chase is nice; so is the feeling of the adrenaline surging through him during a raid, so is the victorious high from cracking a difficult case, from making a stubborn subject break down in an interrogation.

At any rate, pretty half-truths about heroism all sound wonderfully awe-inspiring and noble, especially when he doesn't know better at the time -- and nobody ever tells children or aspiring recruits about the darker side of the law. About corruption, about struggling fruitlessly against criminal syndicates and the various other evils of humanity, knowing all the while that it's just fighting a losing battle and delaying the inevitable. About watching people's lives fall apart because of the effects of crime, and being powerless to change it.

About losing your life in the line of duty.

In the end, Juto doesn't regret much; he's paid off his mortgage, he doesn't have dependants to leave behind. It's a small comfort to not having any other commitments; it's a silver lining to being young and unmarried. The savings he's accumulated over the years end up going to his parents; he knows it's not hugely substantial, but he hopes it'd have brought them some modicum of comfort at least.

One of his old coursemates from university had thought him morbid when he found out Juto had already drafted a rudimentary will -- but then and again, most of Juto's coursemates had been surprised when he decided to enrol in the police academy. Dying in the line of duty wasn't necessarily something to have worried himself about; hell, he could've ended up working the beat as a traffic cop, or something equally mundane. Given his posting in the narcotics division, though, it was all only a matter of time until he met some sticky end or another -- his own later unfortunate predisposition for disreputable dealings notwithstanding. If nothing else -- amidst the disillusionment, the sense of futility -- Juto is a practical man, and the will had been nothing more than a simple preparatory measure for the worst case scenario. Now that the worst has finally come to pass, he feels almost liberated.

Too bad that feeling of liberation doesn't last very long. Even dying gives him no respite. How typical; there's no rest for the wicked. Perhaps it's his karma for allowing himself to be sucked in and swept away by the very syndicates he was supposed to have been wiping out.

In the Underground, Juto's lost count of the number of Reapers' Games he's observed. After a while, every week starts to feel the same -- especially when it follows the same old steps of the same old dance, every single time. Every single week starts the same -- players entering the Underground, forsaking an entrance fee for a second shot at life. Every single week, he does his part as a dutiful reaper officer, creating challenges and traps to cull the number of players, until only the ones with the strongest wills and resolves remain. Juto wonders when even the fanciful and supernatural started to become mundane.

Somewhere along the way, he's taken to trying to find some entertainment for himself, while still making a token effort to stay within the boundaries of the rules. Sometimes, he nudges players towards their mission goals, disguising helpful advice as snide asides meant to goad and incite. Other times, he's content just to watch -- and do nothing much else.

This week, he doesn't have any such luxury; serving as Game Master makes sure of that.

Juto doesn't know why he's been allocated as Game Master for the week -- but far be it for him to question the likes of the Conductor. If nothing else, even he has a sense of self-preservation. Still, Shibuya is a long way from his home division of Yokohama -- and according to the Conductor, the Composer had insisted on this week's Game being held in Shibuya. Privately, Juto thinks Yokomaha would've been a decent venue for the Game; there'd be a wider range of missions he could assign to the players, rather than the insipid assortment he's come up with this week that have mostly entailed running around the city and smacking noise around.

Today's mission objective has already been sent out; all that's left for Juto to do is to sit around, twiddle his thumbs, watch and wait -- and sit around, twiddle his thumbs, watch, and wait he does from the comfort of a bustling cafe in Omotesando.

"Don't you ever get worried that the Conductor's gonna come and kick your ass for slacking off?" the recently-promoted harrier reaper, Yamada Ichiro, asks.

Ichiro is still young and green enough that he hasn't learnt how to stop giving a shit, which Juto has perfected down to an art. Ichiro is still young enough that he hasn't seen injustice after injustice, he hasn't been weathered down by indifference after years of fighting futile battles and trying to keep some semblance of honour and integrity intact. What a joke. If there's one thing Juto has learnt, it's that honour and integrity are outdated ideals that were all well and good when he was still a child, but serve no purpose once he's an adult. From his own experience, honour and integrity exist only in theory; the reality is nowhere near as pretty. At the risk of sounding old and melodramatic -- Ichiro is still young enough that he hasn't seen what little effect he can have against a world tainted by the ugliness of the human condition.

Hm, how poetic. Juto's fingers itch for a pen; he's sure the Conductor would appreciate such pretension.

Ichiro is still looking at Juto expectantly. He's been especially quiet the past day, surly ever since he saw his younger brothers at the Shibuya scramble crossing. Not that Juto can blame him for being so shaken; would he have felt the same if he saw his own family taking part in the Reapers' Game as well? It's an unpleasant answer that Juto doesn't fully want to entertain.

"Again with the slacking?" Juto clears his throat and raises his brows. "I'm glad you've recovered your composure well enough to be a smartass. So, how was it, seeing them? The dear and cherished people you've been dying to meet again? Did you manage to have a nice and touching family reunion?"

Ichiro's eyes flick away momentarily. "I'm worried."

"Worried?!" Juto almost inhales his entire cigarette. "Worried about them?"

"Well, yeah, of course. And you too, to an extent."

"Oh." Juto takes a moment to process that. "Well, how kind of you--"

"Wait, no, that came out wrong." Ichiro sounds offended by the implication. "Don't get all sentimental on me. I'm just worried about the sorta example you're setting as my supervisor."

Juto snickers. "You're not as young and impressionable as you'd like to make people believe, Yamada, so spare me the holier-than-thou attitude. The fact that you made it to harrier so quickly is testament to that." He leans in close, beckoning for Ichiro to do the same. "Well, take it from your respectable senior, then: do as I say, and not as I do. You'll be fine, if you remember nothing else."

"Tch." Ichiro sits back, folding his arms. "And here I was thinking you had something useful to say, maybe even some genuine wisdom or something to impart onto me. More than that, though ..." He slouches moodily back in his seat; his legs stretch out before him, one knee bobbing with tension. "I'm worried about what you, as the Game Master with too much free time, will do."

"Oho." Juto waits until Ichiro looks at him, to rest his hand over his heart. "You wound me. You think I will use this as leverage against you? You think I will use your brothers being in the game, to blackmail you into compliance? Let me teach you a thing or two about cost-benefit analysis, young Yamada."

Ichiro's eyes flick away, suddenly evasive. "I didn't--"

Juto holds out both hands. "Now, look at it this way. With this, with your brothers being in the Reapers' Game, we can both kill two birds with one stone. On one hand, there's the benefit to you: you will prioritise your brothers's welfare and as such, work harder to erase other players in order to ensure their survival -- thus also ensuring your own survival as a reaper. On the other hand, it benefits me to let you do your own thing, as I can finally get you to do your job properly and stop asking me existential questions ... and with fewer players left standing on the last day, there is also a lower chance of me being defeated." He smiles pleasantly across the table at Ichiro. "Let's talk about the cost of me interfering with your agenda ... what can I possibly gain from harming your brothers? Not only I will make an enemy of you, but the Conductor will also doubtless lecture me on pursuing my own agendas when I should be worrying about myself and doing my own job." Juto raps his knuckles smartly against the tabletop; Ichiro doesn't flinch. "Don't you worry, Yamada, I won't do anything to your brothers. You can rest easy with that knowledge. Whatever they do is of no significant and outstanding interest to me."

For several moments, Ichiro doesn't reply. He toys with the sugar packets spilled across the table, not meeting Juto's eyes. "That's all well and good and whatnot," he says slowly, "but all that really confirms to me that you must be close to the Conductor. You get to be Game Master for the week, and all you're doing is sitting around and drinking coffee and talking about hypotheticals. Where's your sense of duty?"

"Sense of duty? Don't make me laugh. What can I say?" Juto shrugs, palms upheld. "I've merely done what needs to be done--"

"The bare minimum, yeah--"

"--and all that's left now is to wait and see whether any players complete today's mission."

Ichiro grunts. "You've been saying that all week."

"And the game is still running smoothly." Juto snaps his fingers, a clean and sharp _click_. "Your argument is invalid."

"I don't understand how you can be so laid-back about it."

"If you're that concerned about looking bad in front of the Conductor, you could be out there ... harriering," Juto points out, folding his hands in front of him. Smart-mouthed as Ichiro may be, he still has a healthy respect for the rules and his seniors ... on the most part. "Doing your job. See, it's in _your_ job description to be out in the field. Not sitting around drinking coffee with the Game Master. I'm the Game Master, so we play by my rules ... or at least for the week. My rules dictate that I can sit around and keep tabs on players once I fulfil the basic criteria of sending out the day's mission brief; my rules also dictate that harriers and other ground reapers should be out and about, actually getting things done. Tracking players, obstructing their goals, creating noise ... I don't even ask for much beyond what you're normally supposed to do."

"And you sitting around getting us to do your grunt work is perfectly fine?" Ichiro asks, incredulous. "You really don't care about looking bad in front of the Conductor?"

Juto smiles, a small and secret smile. "Now, now, no need to concern yourself with that. The Conductor and I are drinking buddies."

"So, all I'm getting out of this," Ichiro says, "is that it pays to have connections."

"Of course it does." Juto gestures around them, fingers spread. "Let this be another educational lesson, about the cruel truth of adulthood. No matter how much you know, and how much you do, no matter how good you are, all of that doesn't matter. You could be the best reaper in all of Ikebukuro, in all of Tokyo, but that'll mean jackshit without the right connections. The Underground imitates the Realground. Or is it the other way around?"

"Yeah, you're really preaching to the choir here," Ichiro says. "I used to run a general odd-job store."

"Ah, yes." Juto clears his throat. "How could I forget you were Yamada Ichiro, Ikebukuro's premier information broker. Not to mention ... how did you die, again?" He pauses and closes his eyes, brow furrowing in pretend concentration. "Ah, yes, when you decided to test the waters as an illegal night courier, of all things. You never heard of biting off more than you can chew?"

Ichiro smiles thinly. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained."

"Hm." Juto grins lazily back. "Who knows, perhaps you'd still be alive, had you known the right people to bail you out of that particular situation. No matter, I'm sure you now realise and understand the value and importance of networking and connections."

"Oh, I understand, all right. Crystal clear."

"I should hope so," Juto says and withdraws his phone out of his jacket pocket. "Now, then, what do you say? Shall I put my connections to good use and report you to the Conductor for slacking off? Or ... perhaps even insubordination?"

Ichiro doesn't respond. Before he can open his mouth, Juto carries on, "I must say, we have an interesting crop of players this week ... very interesting. What do you think? Who do you think will win?"

"Huh?" Ichiro looks at him, guarded and suspicious, mouth set into a thin line.

"Lots of interesting characters this time around." Juto meets his eyes squarely. "My money's on ... hm, possibly that doctor. Or the soldier." He rubs his chin, thoughtful. "What a pity. Had they joined forces instead, I think they would've made a formidable pair. Jinguji Jakurai and Busujima Mason Riou. One who specialises in surviving, and one who specialises in helping others survive. Although the yakuza's a strong contender, too. Now that's a breed of player I haven't seen for a while. Ruthless and hungry enough to claw his way to the top, come what may." Juto holds off deliberately, slowly going through the list of noteworthy players. "There's that young guy, too, the scruffy-looking kid." He lifts his coffee cup and takes a slow, meditative sip; he's opted for a cold brew for his third cup of the day, the flavours rich and dark. "Some would argue he's gotten this far through sheer, dumb luck."

"Some," Ichiro echoes. "But not you?"

Juto smiles to himself, and adjusts his glasses a little. "Let's just say ... the phantom of fortune treads alongside him. Softly, capriciously, but it favours him nonetheless."

"Hm," Ichiro glances away, politely unconvinced. "That sounds fake, but okay."

"There are a few others that interest me as well," Juto continues, almost savouring the words he's about to say. "But there's the little matter of your younger brothers. Jiro and Saburo, was it? They're doing pretty well, despite the fact that they don't seem to have a clue what they're doing. Spending half their time arguing amongst themselves, going around and around in circles ... yet they've managed to get surprisingly far and survive surprisingly long. They make a pretty decent team once they stop yapping at each other, but I really wonder how they're affording all those top-level equipment. Why, after seeing them on the first day ... I honestly thought they wouldn't even survive until midweek, and yet here we are."

Here, he looks Ichiro squarely in the eye, glasses sliding halfway down the bridge of his nose. "I've gotten reports from some other harriers that you've been following those two kids," Juto says, voice light and conversational. "I'd hate for them to be implying that you're ... going so far as to _help_ those two players."

"You said--"

"That whatever they do is of no significant nor outstanding interest to me. Yes, I do know what I said. But what is of _significant and outstanding interest_ to me, is that everything they do falls into place a little too perfectly, a little too conveniently. That, I just might have to report to the Conductor."

"I'm n--"

Juto lowers his voice slightly. "You're just jeopardising their chances ... chances that've aligned themselves so perfectly so far." When Ichiro doesn't respond, he continues. "Remember what we were just talking about? Connections, connections, connections. You wouldn't happen to be one of those brats' connections now, would you? No, I'm sure there must be some kind of mistake ... especially given how you're such a stickler for the rules and doing things by the book."

Ichiro gets to his feet; the legs of his chair scrape noisily against the ground as he pushes it back. Seemingly thinking better of it, Ichiro tucks the chair back under the table, and nods stiffly at Juto. "Thanks for the coffee and the life advice, _senpai_ ," he says, voice low and gruff; Juto can hear the faint edge of sarcasm in the final word. "I'll head off on patrol now."

"You do that." Looking at Ichiro's retreating back, Juto can't resist making a parting crack. "Personally, though, my money is on the mad dog yakuza and his soldier buddy," he calls. Ichiro glances back over his shoulder; Juto winks at him. "Let's see who's backing the winning team, huh?"

.

There is one small advantage to being Game Master for the week -- at least, when it comes to messing with players. A small, rational part of Juto's mind reprimands him for this, for his flagrant abuse of power and flouting the rules -- but he can't find it in him to care. He hasn't cared for playing by the rules and following the book for a long time, why bother starting now?

It's not even like he has anything sinister or underhand planned -- no, sometimes it's far more entertaining just to overtly fuck with people's heads.

Juto leaves the cafe at Omotesando in the late afternoon, once he gets the notification that a pair of players have succeeded in today's mission objective. "Safe for another day, I see," he murmurs to himself as he gets up to leave, tucking his phone and wallet into his suit-pockets. He sets off at a leisurely pace -- and sure enough, the players he's most interested in meeting are on their way to the Omotesando Hills, presumably to restock on supplies and upgrade their equipment. He waits for them inside the building along one of the higher ramps of the Spiral Slope, watching as they ascend towards the atrium.

"Congratulations on surviving another day," he says once they're within earshot. The four players stop short at the sight of Juto; he's made sure to reveal his wings.

Aohitsugi Samatoki is the first to react. "Mission's over, shitty reaper," he says, alighting the last few steps until he's close enough to loom over Juto -- and loom over Juto he does, glowering down. His hand shoots out; he grabs Juto by the lapels, wrenching him forward. "So you can piss the fuck off ... unless you wanna fight and put your money where your mouth is. You fucking reapers are all cowards, making all that noise and sending them after us. Probably can't even fight worth a damn. That bullshit about not being able to engage players directly is all just a convenient lie, isn't it?" Hand still fisted in Juto's collar, he gives Juto a little shake. "What's wrong, don't wanna get your own hands dirty? Or are you lot just all bark and no bite?" He looks Juto up and down, lip curling. "Look at you. Strutting around looking like some ass-kissing, jumped-up bureaucrat. I see how it is now. You reapers are all just somebody else's dogs, aren't you? Collared pets running around doing your boss's bidding. Who's your master, huh? The Conductor? The Composer?"

Juto raises his eyebrows, but doesn't back away. His past boredom and restlessness is a distant memory now; this is the first time he's heard a player mention either the Conductor or Composer to him. He glances over Samatoki's shoulder, at the other players behind him; for now, he has more pressing business than to question Samatoki's knowledge and sources. Swallowing down his surprise, Juto chooses instead to laugh in Samatoki's face. "My, my. Are you implying that I do everything by the book?"

"I see," Samatoki says. His voice is deceptively calm; there is a quiet menace that strikes a stark contrast against his earlier bluster. "I see. You're just the same as all those dirty cops I used to deal with."

"Perhaps." Juto rests his hand on Samatoki's, then wrenches himself free. Samatoki releases him with a jerk; Juto hisses out an impatient breath through his teeth, rearranging his collar and smoothing down his tie. "You wound me, insinuating I come here with sinister intentions to waylay you. Why, I was just looking to congratulate you."

"Congratulate us?" another player asks. He looks the youngest out of the quartet assembled at the atrium, dark-haired and wearing a long parka with fur trim on the hood. His white jeans are torn at the knees -- a staple of modern youth fashion that Juto will never be able to understand. Why bother covering up with such a voluminous coat if you're going to expose parts of your skin?

The player frowns, scratching his head while Juto looks him up and down. "Why d'you care enough to wanna congratulate us, anyways?'

"Because," Juto says with deliberate slowness, "I'm the current Game Master."

"Oh my." Next to the dark-haired player, a man dressed incongruously in kimono rubs his chin, the shadow of his hand disguising a faint and infuriating smile. "It's only the Third Day, and the Game Master's already revealing himself to us? You're not one for tradition, are you?"

"I'm sure you know a lot about tradition and things to say about it," Juto replies placidly.

They regard each other smilingly. The kimono-clad man chuckles into his hand. "Ah, you have me there."

Samatoki watches the exchange, now eyeing Juto with the wary suspicion of a caged animal -- and rightly so. "The fuck did you say?" Samatoki snarls, voice dropping dangerously.

Juto allows his smile to broaden. "I'm sorry? Do you want to lecture me about traditions as well?"

"Shut the fuck up." Samatoki straightens; he manages to keep his expression admirably neutral, but he can't quite disguise the telltale twitch of a muscle in his jaw. "Are you meaning to tell me that you're the shitwad that put us up to this? You're the rat bastard piece of shit in charge of this bullshit song and dance game you're putting us through?"

"Bravo!" Juto claps a few times in mock applause. "Though I prefer rabbit myself, personally."

"Huh?" Samatoki growls, drawing out the word to something long and guttural. "The fuck are you yapping about?"

"Goodness," Juto sighs. "You really have a limited vocabulary. But yes, guilty as charged. I'm the Game Master, in charge of issuing all your mission objectives this week. I didn't think they were too difficult, but if you feel the need to complain about them, then ..." He glances down, making a great show of adjusting his tie pin; Samatoki is glaring daggers at him, teeth clenched. "... then perhaps you're not as strong as you think you are. I already know you're definitely not as smart as you think you are, but that's another story."

Samatoki snarls and lunges towards Juto -- but is held back by his partner. "Apologies," Riou says, looking quite unperturbed as Samatoki tries to wrench himself free. "He has a short temper."

"Shut the fuck up," Samatoki says but stops struggling. "Let me go."

Riou does not relax his grip. "You're not going to jump him?"

"I'm not gonna jump him." Samatoki says and sighs "Fuck. Fuck you, and fuck this guy, I don't have time to waste fucking around here. Riou, meet me at the store."

"Well, well. I see who wears the pants in your partnership. I can't say I expected the mad dog of Yokohama to just go limping off with his tail between his legs, just like that," Juto calls after him. Samatoki freezes, one foot already on the next step down. "In fact, I'm positively mortified at how we come from the same city -- Yokohama deserves better. How did you ever manage to run a successful underground operation? With a temper like that, I'm surprised things didn't blow up in your face a lot sooner."

A deathly silence falls, almost palpable over the soft strains of shopping centre music. Juto smiles into his palm as he lifts a hand to adjust his glasses. "That's how you ended up here, isn't it? What's the matter, overstepped your bounds or overestimated your own strength and got turned into chopped liver? Who was it, then? Your own underlings, sick and tired of you being too erratic to lead them properly? Or some other lowlife rival syndicate treading on your tail? Or, let me guess, you got too careless, too drunk off of your own power? Did you finally meet a cop you couldn't intimidate or buy out?"

"What did you say?"

Samatoki's voice has gone quiet and level. Juto smirks. "You heard me. I guessed as much -- you lived like a dog, so it's only fitting that you died like a dog."

He's prepared for Samatoki hurtling towards him, pinning him against one of the tall poles lining the balustrade of the walkway. Juto allows himself to be led into the motion; it'll be far more painful if he resists, anyway. He lets his tensed muscles loosen just before his back hits the pole; Samatoki's forearm is tight against his throat, holding him in place.

Both Samatoki's partner and the kimono-clad man stand stock-still. "Samatoki," Riou says, a warning. Juto meets his eyes past Samatoki's shoulder and waves him away.

Samatoki's face is blank, expressionless; gone is the wild-eyed lividity from before, replaced instead by an eerie calm. He leans in close to Juto; this close, Juto notices his eyes are red -- the red of war and lust and violence. "You keep running your mouth like that," Samatoki murmurs, "and you'll find that I won't even need pins or psychs or any of that shit to rip that filthy tongue right outta your useless head."

"Yes, yes, excellent," Juto manages and laughs, low and rasping. "Take that anger and channel it. Harness it, control it, turn it into your strength. You'll need it."

If anything, that makes Samatoki press harder against Juto's neck. "What the fuck did you say?"

"You want to go back, don't you? You all do." Juto waves towards the other players, raising his voice enough to be heard by them. "You're all playing the Reaper's Game to go back to life. Here's a little word of advice from your friendly Underground public servant. I'm only going to say it once, so do try to listen carefully." He smiles at Samatoki, baring his teeth in a mirthless grin. "You think that just because you can do the bare minimum by beating some piss-easy missions and avoiding erasure, that you're worthy of a second chance? Don't make me laugh. You'll need more than surviving by sheer dumb luck if you want to defeat me."

Samatoki growls, a low sound in his throat. "What?"

Juto smirks. "You shit-for-brains really think you know everything, huh? Dropping words like _the Conductor_ and _the Composer_ around like you really know what's going on, when you don't even know the basics? Goodness, this is why I can't stand stupid people who just charge headfirst into things, without stopping to think." He raises a hand, gently tapping the side of his head with his index finger. "Me, I'm your Game Master for the week. Is your simple little mind still capable of following that? Good, hold on to that thought and stay with me a little longer, I'm going to blow your mind by relating those two little tidbits of information."

The pressure of Samatoki's forearm intensifies against Juto's windpipe as he pushes, harder. "Get on with it and spit it out already," Samatoki murmurs, barely moving his mouth.

"You, as the players, have the task of defeating me at the end of the week." Juto smiles, wider now; he can see himself reflected twofold in Samatoki's eyes. "... provided you even last that long."

A stunned silence greets his words. The player in the parka is the first to recover. "W-what? We have to defeat you? What happened to reapers not being able to fight players directly?"

Juto tilts his head to the side so he can meet the player's eyes. He bares his teeth in a mirthless grin. "On the final day, the gloves are off."

"Look at you, still talking up a big game." To Juto's surprise, Samatoki laughs; it's not a pleasant sound. "If you're really the bigshot Game Master like you keep yapping on about, are you really going to tolerate some lowly player pushing you around?"

"That would be too boring," Juto says and sighs. "Too predictable. Please, I'd ask you not to lump us in the same category; you and I are thankfully very different kids of people. Besides, my hands are a little tied -- the rules of the Reapers' Game strictly and expressly forbids the Game Master from directly harming or erasing players prior to the final day. However ... _indirectly_ , on the other hand ..."

He snaps his fingers; the shape of a death thrash mink materialises beside him. Its form wavers, at first blurry and indistinct before its edges sharpen. It strikes with long, curved claws, cruelly curved like sickles; Samatoki releases his hold on Juto, throwing himself back. Juto leans his weight against the steel pole, allowing his posture to loosen; the back of his head throbs dully from the earlier impact.

A few feet away, Samatoki has retreated to his partner's side, pins in hand; he takes a step back, then another as more noise appears. After their little confrontation, Juto is feeling spiteful; he creates metal corehogs and shrew gazers; flocks of gabba bats and, finally, a ragtime drake. "Prove yourself," he says as he turns on his heel, turning his back to Samatoki and the other three players. The drake lashes out with its tail, narrowly avoiding Juto's legs. "Prove that you're worthy of fighting me, of winning the Reapers' Game -- only then can we talk about the likes of the Conductor and the Composer."

He makes his own slow and leisurely way up the rest of the atrium then. Samatoki bellows a wordless roar of rage after him; Juto only raises his hand in a lazy wave.

From a balustrade several floors up, Juto watches the skirmish unfold in the middle of Omotesando Hills; the four players do an admirable job of dispatching the noise. Samatoki works in tandem with his partner, wearing down the drake as they push it into a corner, leaving it no option but to defend; some distance off, the dark-haired younger player hurls psychs at the advancing corehogs and shrews. As though feeling Juto's scrutiny, the kimono-wearing player glances up and meets his eyes. As Juto watches, the noise advancing around the player recoils as though burnt -- and there, he catches sight of brilliant swathes of pale purple fire lapping at the noise as they struggle to retreat.

"Hey, piece of shit Game Master!"

Juto turns his head slowly towards the sound. Ducking between the outstretched wings of the ragtime drake as it thrashes in its death throes, Samatoki lifts his head and looks up, meeting Juto's eyes. He bares his teeth, and points up at Juto, before making a slashing motion across his throat. Juto can see Samatoki's mouth moving as the drake dissipates around him, but he doesn't need to hear Samatoki to know what the other man is saying.

The last of the noise he's created vanishes, fading into static. Juto checks his watch, and pushes away from the balustrade. It's time to go; he's killed just enough time until he has to meet his next commitment.

.

Juto has had quite the busy day of sitting around at coffee shops and goading people; there's only so much of that he can pencil into his little black book of appointments. His final appointment lands him back along the street he'd had coffee at earlier, this time at a small boutique teahouse tucked away in the heart of Shibuya.

It's late by the time Juto arrives -- almost nine in the evening, night settling into the city. Despite the bustle of the streets outside, the shop is almost empty when Juto arrives; a few spaces are occupied, but there's no sign of the Conductor. He seats himself at one of the tables, and waits.

The teahouse isn't the reserved, traditional affair Juto was anticipating -- and fearing. Rather, it's almost reassuringly modern, with sleek, contemporary decor, plenty of iron accents and copper finishes mixed in amongst the dark wood panelling. It could be worse. He could have been summoned to a traditional teahouse, then made to sweat through hours of a full tea ceremony; far from calming his mind, it would only have made him more ill at ease.

Juto busies himself with poring over the menu. Behind him, the door opens and shuts; he doesn't need to turn around to recognise the owner of the voice -- soft and pensive, almost musical. Juto continues to pretend to be engrossed in the menu, reading down the list of items.

He waits until his companion is seated until he finally sets down the menu. "And here I was thinking you were going to stand me up. I thought you'd message me hours later while I'm still hanging around here like an idiot, and then you'd tell me 'oh, it was just a lie', or something like that."

The man opposite him is dressed incongruously in kimono, though he doesn't seem quite as out-of-place in the teahouse with its blend of contemporary and traditional decor. The present surroundings certainly suit him far more than the brightly-lit floors of the Omotesando Hills. Smiling, the man sets down a stack of paperback books, tied together with twine.

"Is that the kind of person you take me for?" the Conductor of Tokyo asks, his voice mild. He touches a hand to the side of his face, fingertips skimming against his cheek. "You wound me."

"Oh, I just happen to know the kind of person you are."

The Conductor only laughs. "Fair enough."

"More importantly ..." Juto makes a show of glancing around, even rising from his seat slightly in order to better crane his neck at the empty space behind the Conductor. "... I see you managed to shake off your partner?"

"Indeed," the Conductor replies, looking slightly rueful. "By no means a simple task, mind you. He tails me with the persistence of a lost puppy."

"Geez. I hope he doesn't smell."

"Now, now," the Conductor says, though the ghost of a smile plucks at the corners of his lips. "He may look like a scruffy ragamuffin, but that's about as bad as it gets. He does like to follow me around everywhere, though."

Well, Juto can clearly see the problem there, even if the Conductor can't. "You should've known better than to feed him." He raises two fingers, waggling them slightly. "That goes for both food and information."

"Good grief." the Conductor rubs at his temples with his fingertips. "I couldn't help it. He looked so miserable and lost and pathetic. I had no choice but to make a pact with him."

Juto sighs and pats at his suit jacket, drawing out a cigarette from the pack in his breast pocket. "That's a lie, isn't it?"

The Conductor clears his throat. "Pardon me, Juto-san, but I'd like if you could refrain from smoking inside one of my favourite haunts," he says before Juto can light the cigarette. "I know we all have our unfortunate vices, but there's a time and a place for everything."

"Sure, sure," Juto replies, the unlit cigarette still clamped between his front teeth.  "A time and a place for everything. Just like how there's a time and a place to be forging pacts. Just like how there's a time and a place for a Conductor to belong."

"Indeed." The corners of the Conductor's eyes narrow slightly in amusement. "You're right, me having no choice but to make a pact with Arisugawa Dice was just a lie."

"I had no idea." Juto sets his cigarette down.

The Conductor doesn't quite smile. "Are you perhaps feeling a little shaken from your earlier encounter with Aohitsugi Samatoki?"

"What?"

"You don't tend to start smoking unless you're stressed." The Conductor leans forward slightly, tilting his head to the side. He reaches out, fingers brushing against Juto's jaw. Surprised, Juto angles his head away; the Conductor's brow furrows, taking in the faint bruises. "Hm, that's no good. He was rather rough with you, no?"

"Ah--" Juto's hands fly to his collar; he hadn't gotten around to fixing it yet. "Ah, that." His fingertips skim the skin of his neck, slightly tender from where Samatoki had pinned him earlier. "It's nothing."

"Are you sure?" The Conductor withdraws his hand, resting his cheek in his palm. "It was unnecessary for you to pull that stunt with the noise, you know. Or were you perhaps frustrated with me, and the directions I gave you prior to the beginning of the week?"

"Nothing of the sort."

"Is that so?" The Conductor closes his eyes, nodding to himself. "You almost had me fooled. And here I was, thinking you were tying to get back at me by making me reveal myself."

Acutely aware of the Conductor's eyes on him, Juto straightens out the collar of his shirt, refastening the buttons. He tugs at the fabric, pulling it just high enough to hide the bruises on his neck. "My apologies, Conductor, I intended for nothing of the sort. Aohitsugi was just getting on my nerves a little, that's all. Anyway, Aohitsugi isn't what you summoned me to talk about -- you made our appointment long before I had any plans of heckling him. I certainly wasn't expecting you to be there." Juto carefully adjusts his askew tie and arranges his collar-pins back into place. "So, speaking of which -- what about your pact with Arisugawa?"

"As expected of a former narcotics investigator, to turn this around and into an interrogation." The Conductor nods approvingly; thankfully, he's no longer studying Juto's throat. "Bravo. But first, perhaps some tea will be nice. It's rather rude to sit here and not order anything, isn't it?"

"Sure." It suits Juto just fine, anyway -- he doesn't know an awful lot about tea. He still remembers the last time he went out for tea with the Conductor; the other reaper had asked him what sort of tea he enjoyed. Juto had unthinkingly replied with orange pekoe; he's sure that were Conductor anyone less civilised, he would've been laughed under the table and out of the shop. Since then, Juto's learnt to just keep his mouth shut when tea is involved.

With his pride still smarting and the memory still lingering at the forefront of his mind, Juto leaves the Conductor to place their orders, and sits back as they are plied with various brews served in dainty dark-glazed earthenware cups. He isn't much of a tea-drinker himself; he's always preferred the deeper acidity of a good French roast. Under the Conductor's watchful eye, Juto dutifully sits and sips through a gauntlet of different blends of green tea -- not that he can really tell the difference. Before long, everything tastes somewhat the same to him, a thought he will never admit out loud.

"Try this sencha," the Conductor says, nudging the cup towards Juto. He sits with his elbows on the table, chin propped atop his linked fingers as he watches Juto raise the cup and take a sip. Juto surveys the Conductor from beneath lowered lashes -- just what sort of response is he expecting?

"Hmm," he says, thinking hard. "It's very ... green." Well, it isn't that far off from the truth -- the brew is a delicate yet rich jade-green, beautifully smooth. Unfortunately, the same could also be said of the other teas he's drunk in the past ten minutes.

A light laugh from the Conductor. "I see, I see, I suppose with those powers of observation, it's no surprise you weren't a senior detective."

Juto smiles back through his teeth. The Conductor has always been an infuriating man; difficult to pigeonhole, and with a rather unfortunate hobby of winding people up. He calls it 'observing the nature of the human condition'; Juto's rather more inclined to calling it, 'being a pain in the ass for shits and giggles'.

Seeing his expression, the Conductor laughs. "That was just a lie. I do hold your skills in high esteem, Juto-san, but I figured you're not the kind to be taken in by idle flattery."

Juto chooses not to respond. They sit in silence as the first set of cups are cleared away. It'll take a while for the Conductor to get to his main point -- he's always been like this, always preferred to demur while the other party sits and sweats it out.

Their server brings them more tea. Juto watches as the tea is poured and set before them. This time it's bancha. The flavour is stronger, bolder, more robust; smoky, almost. The Conductor sniffs at the steam wafting gently from the top of his cup, satisfied. "I'm a bit surprised at your choice in venue," Juto ventures, setting his cup back down. "I thought you'd be into something ... a little less contemporary."

"A traditional tea ceremony, you mean." the Conductor watches him closely, hands folded on his lap.

"Well, yes." Juto leans back in his seat. This late in the evening, the teahouse is all but empty; the music playing through the speakers is modern and quiet and subdued, but does nothing to put his mind at ease.

"Ah," the Conductor says, gazing out through the glass doors to the darkened streets outside. "Heavens, I wouldn't do that to you. You'd have bolted the moment you set foot in the premises."

"I never experienced a traditional tea ceremony," Juto admits. "It seemed a bit too ... I don't know. Remote? Luxurious?"

If Juto doesn't know better, he'd swear the Conductor almost laughs. He frowns; the Conductor coughs and gazes steadily back at him, his face a smooth mask of polite interest. "I'm sure your fast-paced, high-pressure occupation didn't allow for much downtime."

"Something like that."

The Conductor nods, seemingly satisfied by his response. "But I'm sure you can agree that I am not one for tradition. In fact, this entire Game ... it seems our theme of the week is subverting tradition."

Juto's hand twitches involuntarily, a tendon jumping in his wrist.

"Speaking of subverting tradition ... why did you reveal yourself to the players?" the Conductor asks, not looking at Juto. He pokes delicately at a small mound of warabi-mochi on the tiny side plate beside him, disturbing the soybean powder piled atop the sweets. "You've painted quite the target onto your back. Aohitsugi Samatoki will be out for your blood, make no mistake about it."

"Why are you taking part in the Game as a player?" Juto replies without preamble, not taking his eyes off the warabi-mochi. "I may be mistaken, but I think that's really subverting tradition."

The Conductor's hand stills. "Hmm, I see where this is going. Are you going to report me to someone? To ... the Composer, even?" He sets down the tiny wooden spoon and laces his fingers together. Juto isn't fooled; he may not even know who the Composer is, nor could he even begin to comprehend Their true nature. However, what he does understand is that in essence, both the Composer and Conductor of Tokyo must be remarkably similar people.

No. Juto runs his fingertips along the lip of his teacup. No, calling them _people_ would imply they are still within the realm of human understanding, of human reasoning and logic. He's been a reaper himself for longer than he cares to remember, and he's already starting to lose sight of the same human principles and ideals that trouble Yamada Ichiro -- what, then, of beings like the Composer and the Conductor?

The teahouse is silent around them -- only then does Juto realise that the previous music track has ended. The first few notes of the next song start, a soft and jazzy tune. "Oh, nothing of the sort," he says and mirrors the Conductor's smile. "Me, I don't care for rules or tradition."

Across from him, the Conductor folds his arms, tucking his hands beneath the voluminous fall of his cape. "I didn't think so. What's your agenda, then, Iruma Juto, reaper officer of Yokohama and Game Master overseeing this week's Reapers' Game?"

"Oh, that." Juto breaks off as the next pot of tea is brought around. This time, the tea is a warm amber, almost coppery in colour -- a brew even he is familiar with. He takes a sip of the hojicha while he mulls over his answer. The orange blossom wagashi that comes along with the tea is a nice touch; the light, citrus sweetness offsets the full-bodied flavour of the tea nicely. "Hmm, I don't really have an agenda. I guess I'm just here to have fun."

"Fun?" the Conductor echoes. "Interesting," he murmurs as he takes another sip from his tea.  "Would you mind if I asked you a personal question?"

Ah. There it is. Juto's slightly relieved for the segue. "Sure."

"Thank you." the Conductor adopts a thinking posture, one elbow resting in his hand. "Now, I often ask myself, why did Iruma Juto not bother to rise through the ranks? Why did Iruma Juto choose to live as a harrier for as long as he did, when he had the experience, talent, and ability to go further? Why did Iruma Juto wait so long until he accepted my proposal to promote him to the rank of officer? Why did Iruma Juto finally accept my request for him to be the Game Master for the week? Even now, bearing the coveted power and position of Game Master, why does Iruma Juto harbour no aspirations of ascending to the rank of Conductor or even Composer, as so many reapers aspire to one day? Why does Iruma Juto not use his knowledge of the Conductor's identity and current transgressions as ammunition for his ambitions?" He catches Juto's eye, and raises a finger to his lips before Juto can say anything. "Simple disillusionment isn't just the answer. You've been a reaper too long to be hung up on the same moral dilemmas and existential questions as young Yamada Ichiro. But mere boredom isn't the answer to your inertia, either."

"I realised a bit late that I'd be in a better position to observe things happening as an officer. This is only compounded by assuming the role of the Game Master." Juto folds his hands atop the table. "Nothing more, nothing less."

Another round of tea arrives. The Conductor sips at his brew and sighs, contented. "I see. Well, before we get on that train of thought ... do try the gyokuro, Juto-san. It's really quite divine."

Juto tries it -- and can't say he's particularly impressed. It tastes a little like seaweed. "It's ... nice," he says and sets the cup down.

"Can you taste it?" the Conductor asks, eyes shut as he slowly savours his cup. "Do you taste the marine, brothy notes? The hint of honeydew melon and the sweet, yet savoury hint of baked sweet potato?"

"Ah," Juto says, not very eloquently. He stares at the Conductor, expecting the other reaper to follow through with the next part of his skit, to laugh, to tell him it was just a lie. When no response is forthcoming -- perhaps the man is being genuine, for once -- Juto fleetingly considers the option of just smiling and nodding while he pretends to taste the notes of whatever the hell the Conductor is babbling about, then decides against it. The Conductor may have a penchant for needless lying, but Juto doesn't have the same energy or ability to go through all the mental acrobatics he'll have to undertake in order to make his lies believable by any stretch. Instead, he shakes his head. "No."

"A pity," the Conductor says, unperturbed. His eyes are closed; he looks almost serene, tea cup cradled in his hands. "Gyokuro is considered one of the most precious and noble of Japanese teas." Satisfied, he sets his cup down.

Juto takes another drink -- but try as he might, he can't taste anything but yet another cup of hot leaf water. At least the hojicha had looked slightly different. "Conductor," he begins. "I don't have the imagination to taste all those subtle notes and flavours you're finding in this tea, as fine and expensive as it doubtless is. Neither do I have the necessary Imagination it takes to be Conductor, let alone Composer, which is why I have never envied you your role, or aspired to usurp your position. You, on the other hand, have more than enough Imagination to spare, more than enough Imagination to keep the Underground going."

The Conductor laughs. "A bold statement."

"I've read some of your works, you know. They're very popular in the Realground."

"Hmm," the Conductor hums. It's more a question than anything else. "You flatter me, Juto-san. It's just a hobby. A ..." He narrows his eyes, considering. "A little side-hustle, as you might have called it in a previous life. Just something to pass the time."

Suddenly reluctant to look the Conductor in the eye -- for Juto knows many tells of pathological liars, having dealt with more than a few in his previous line of work; he has no desire to confirm whether or not the Conductor is lying -- he takes off his glasses, inspecting the lenses for dust and smudges. "Why did you choose to be a writer?"

"Why not?" The Conductor smiles pleasantly at him from across the table, through a pallid haze of steam that wafts upwards in slow, lazy circles. "Life is more entertaining and tolerable with some form of escapism."

Juto slides his glasses back on. "For the author, or the audience?"

"I wonder."

That's as far as Juto is willing to prod, at least for now. He files the information away, to ponder for another day. Perhaps while he's waiting for tomorrow's mission to be completed -- though he'll have to come up with a mission outline first. "What a pain," he says out loud.

"Hm?"

"Tomorrow's mission. I need to find something for them to do."

The Conductor laughs. "You mean you haven't yet?"

"No." Juto shrugs. "I told you, I don't have the imagination to come up with fun and challenging activities for people. It was my job to uncover the truth, to take the most rational and logical path based on existing information. I'm not so good at setting up clues deliberately meaning one thing, but leading to another. It's why I was a police investigator, as opposed to a criminal." He smiles thinly. "Try as I might, I could never execute the perfect crime."

"I wouldn't say that. Fabricating reports, obfuscating clues ..." The Conductor's hand rests, lightly, against the side of his tea cup. "They require the same skillset. But you're in luck, Juto-san, because I have a little request to make." He takes out his phone, tapping in a message; Juto's own phone chirps in his pocket. "The details are outlined in the mail I just sent you. I'd appreciate if you could make that tomorrow's mission objective."

Juto checks the message, delaying taking his eyes off the Conductor for as long as possible. Benign and cordial though he may act, the man is cunning as a fox; trapped in the teahouse with him, Juto feels like a cornered rabbit.

"That's ... an interesting mission brief," he begins, and shuts off his phone screen. "All right. I'll issue it tomorrow."

"Thank you." The Conductor finishes off the last of his wagashi.

Juto hesitates; he knows the Conductor is waiting for something. "The Imagination it takes to tell a story, against simply keeping your wits enough to fabricate some facts and keep them consistent," he begins, but the Conductor cuts him off.

"You'll find they're much the same, Juto-san. They all entail selling an alternate reality to someone, convincing them it's the truth. Won't you agree?"

"To be Composer, and even before that, to be Conductor ... to have the Imagination it takes to shape and refine the essence of the Soul ... it's all stuff way beyond the comprehension of a simple reaper like me. As for someone like you, or even like the famous designer easy R ... well, you guys are just brimming with Imagination, aren't you?"

"Hmm," the Conductor murmurs; his eyes are sharp and focused, fixed on Juto's. "You lumped me and easy R in the same category."

Juto smirks. "Offended? That I consider you and a human one and the same? Humans are capable of great Imagination, too, you know. Especially when it gets powerful enough to influence others. Come to think about it, easy R's got an almost cult following in Shibuya."

"Oh, no, I'm not offended. Merely curious about the good points you raise." The Conductor leans against the table, resting his chin in his hand. "You are very much correct; easy R must indeed have some stellar Imagination, to be able to produce the designs they do."

"They?"

"Yes, easy R is rather coy about their true identity, save for the fact that they're from Shibuya." The Conductor heaves a rueful sigh. "Sometimes the most brilliant of creative minds can also have their own eccentricities and idiosyncrasies. More to the point, though, I'm surprised you've heard of their work."

"With fashion spanning across a diverse range of styles, it's hard to not have heard of easy R," Juto replies. He'd have to be blind to not notice the various billboards and ads splashed prominently across Shibuya crossing and on social media, advertising some part or another of the designer's collection. "I've noticed that easy-R's fashion has a rather powerful sway over the Shibuya Underground in particular. They've made it a point to dabble in just about every fashion style there is -- contemporary, avant-garde, haute couture, everyday wear, street fashion ... it's interesting. I wonder what such a wide and scattered body of works says about the mind of its creator. In fact ... it reminds me of someone else. A famous author, similarly known for experimental works spanning a wide range of genres."

"Hmhmm." The Conductor shifts his hand slightly, cheek resting against his knuckles. If Juto doesn't know better, he'd almost swear the Conductor is stifling a laugh.

Juto clicks his tongue, impatient. "Do you find the thought of me talking about fiction and fashion to be that funny? I'd have to be living under a rock to not have some clue who easy R is. And I do pride myself on being reasonably well-informed. Brats like Yamada Ichiro may think I'm amazingly old and out of touch, but I'm not clueless."

The Conductor nods slowly with each word Juto says. "You're selling yourself short, Juto-san. Your powers of deduction and reasoning are truly frightening."

Juto smiles into his cup. "Hardly. Just the idle musings of a washed-out former narc, nothing more."

"Well then, let me ask you another question, o washed-out former narc. Surely you must feel some sort of conflict within you." When Juto doesn't reply, the Conductor carries on. "You know traditions are being broken, laws are being ignored. The Conductor willingly takes part in the Reapers' Game, despite that clearly going against the rules. The Composer is nowhere in sight, clearly even turning a blind eye to these transgressions." The Conductor's voice drops, so soft Juto has to strain his ears to hear. "Surely this goes against your moral code, as an officer of the law."

"Is that so?" Juto bursts out laughing, louder than he intends to. It rings through the quiet teahouse, over the soft jazz playing in the background. "I'm afraid you hold me in too high esteem, Conductor."

"Oh?"

"I'm just a simple dirty cop," Juto says. "A corrupt officer in life, and a corrupt officer in death -- that's me. For the right price, anyone could buy my silence. For the right price, I could sell whatever I know. I just haven't found the right buyer or the highest bidder yet, that's all."

They grin at each other over the table, though there's no mirth there. Juto thinks, fleetingly, of cats eyeing each other over injured prey, claws sheathed but teeth bared, waiting to see who would strike. The Conductor chuckles, breaking eye contact first. "You're a bold one. At the end of the day, I'm still the Conductor. Do you really want to blackmail me?"

"At the end of the day, you're still doing whatever the hell you want," Juto sneers. "And at the end of the day, I just want to see what will happen. Don't worry, I won't get in your way."

The Conductor doesn't reply immediately, preferring to finish his tea. He sets the empty cup down on the table; the base makes contact against the wood with a soft and musical _clink_. He rises, smoothing down nonexistent creases along the front of his hakama. Without a break in movement, he plucks a ten thousand yen note from his wallet and lays it on the table, not even glancing at the bill. "My treat," he says before Juto can protest.

Well, then. There's a time and place to gracefully accept. Especially when it came to overpriced hot leaf water. Juto bows slightly at the waist. "Thank you."

"You know," the Conductor says, one hand resting on the handle of the glass door as he glances over his shoulder towards Juto, "For all our differences, I think you are very similar to myself and the Composer. It's a pity that we didn't get to know each other sooner. Perhaps we could even have embarked on this whole ... hm, _trial_ together."

There's something about the way he phrases it, something about the way he handles the word that makes the hairs at the back of Juto's neck stand up. "Conductor?"

"You're right, of course," the Conductor adds, "you may not quite have the Imagination to be Conductor or Composer ... but after everything you told me, I know what would suit you -- to be a distant watcher and observer, who doesn't directly interfere ... it's just your style, isn't it?"

Juto laughs. "As always, you see right through me, Conductor. Though I can't say I'm surprised -- aren't writers meant to have the clearest insight on the human psyche?"

"Hmm." The Conductor gazes out through the glass, staring into the night. "I daresay ... I think you might have been more suited to being the Producer."

He opens the door; a faint autumn breeze pushes in through the gap, stirring Juto's hair. Though he can't see the Conductor's face, he can see the other reaper's cheek curving into a small and secret smile. "That was just a lie."


	5. GIVE UP (the thursday remix) - I went to sleep a poet (and woke up a fraud)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On lies, and curses, and the reflection of the human condition.

The entity known as Yumeno Gentaro is many things -- bestselling novelist, reaper officer overseeing Shibuya ward, illegal player in the Reapers' Game -- and last but not least, Conductor of Tokyo, right hand of the Composer. 

Perhaps any other person would have buckled under the strain and pressure of maintaining so many disparate identities. However, Gentaro is an accomplished enough liar to be able to execute each role flawlessly -- though he's not under any illusions about being the main star. No, such an honour would go to the Composer.

As a reaper, he's always generally avoided working with a partner; it's easier to keep people at a distance that way. The only one he's ever let close -- close enough that they saw through him and into his true nature right away -- is the Composer.

Naturally, it's a mistake Gentaro won't make again.

His taking part in the Reapers' Game is a natural progression from his good-natured wager with the Composer; that part, Gentaro does not find objectionable. Of course, Gentaro could have taken the same route as the Composer did in finding a way to circumvent the rules, but the concept of taking inspiration from someone else's idea does not sit well with him; he wouldn't be able to call himself a writer in good conscience.

Yes, the entity known as Yumeno Gentaro is many things -- but plagiarist and glorified babysitter does not number amongst them. And yet, the latter is precisely how he finds himself after the first day.

He follows his partner at a sedate pace, pretending to be engrossed in a novel. Arisugawa Dice doesn't seem like an exceptionally noteworthy person -- except for his unfortunate tendency to land himself in danger at every given opportunity. Gentaro hadn't been in any great or pressing need to find a partner immediately; he should have known better than to assume things would fall nicely into place. His carefully-laid plans of watching and waiting to swoop in and ally himself with the most promising player had been disrupted in the form of Dice hurling himself headfirst into the Shibuya crossing fray with nary a plan -- or psychs, for that matter -- in store.

Gentaro glances up from his book, making sure the back of Dice's dark-haired head is still in his line of sight. Could it have been Dice's plan all along, to find himself a capable partner? Is Gentaro the one to have played right into his hands, all the while reveling in his own cleverness and altruism in saving someone who so desperately seemed to have needed his help?

As though hearing Gentaro's thoughts, Dice turns around and grins broadly before continuing to plough through the crowd; Gentaro can see his mouth moving, but given the noise and bustle, he has no idea what Dice is saying. 

Yes, perhaps things would have gone a lot more differently had Gentaro not met Dice's eyes that fateful evening. Convinced that his lucky break had finally arrived, Dice wasted no time in latching on to Gentaro -- and he'd refused to let go since.

In fact, even how, he keeps firm hold of Gentaro, as though expecting his partner to disappear at the nearest opportunity. It's really quite a pity, Gentaro muses; capricious as he may well be, even he has no intention of abandoning someone with whom he's made a pact.

Perhaps the pact was a mistake. The inevitable result for his moment of charity is Dice shadowing him with a persistence that puts overly-attached house pets to shame. Gentaro sighs and shuts his book. With Dice's increased pace, the words are jumping around far too much to his liking; he's starting to get a headache. He digs his heels in slightly, to no avail; Dice only tugs harder, evidently having seen something. Gentaro clears his throat. "Dice, where are we going?"

"Food," Dice says over his shoulder, pace quickening as he drags Gentaro along by the wrist. "I'm starving! Gotta give us some brain food to prepare us for whatever puzzle the GM is gonna throw at us right?"

"I see," Gentaro says, and allows himself to be led into the first ramen shop Dice spots. Once inside and with food orders out of the way, Dice glances around furtively before leaning across the table and beckoning Gentaro to do the same.

Gentaro complies. Their shadows fall across the table, pale in the bright overhead lights. "Y'know, I've been thinkin'." Dice fiddles with the paper napkins on the table. "I've been thinking, and some things seem a bit weird to me."

For several seconds, Gentaro just stares at him, and raises his brows slightly. "Oh, my, that's quite the accusation. What makes you say so?"

Dice's gaze slides away, suddenly evasive. "I'm just-- look, I'm not interrogating you or nothin'. I just wanna trust you, y'know?"

"Of course you can trust me." Gentaro adopts a hurt expression. That is neither his first lie, nor Dice's first mistake; it will not be the last for both of them.

"And I do trust you!" Dice holds his hands up, placating. "But you ... you know a lot about the Reapers' Game, and ... you're just, I'unno, you're actually pretty good at it."

Gentaro meets his gaze levelly. While on the surface, Dice is exactly as he seems to be -- brash, hotheaded, a glutton for both thrills and danger as well as free food -- there are times when he's more perceptive than he lets on. "Your point being?"

" _My point being_ , why did you agree to partnering up with me?"

"You didn't exactly give me a choice," Gentaro replies. "And I felt so taken by you gallantly fighting off all that noise when I first saw you at Shibuya crossing ... it really made my heart flutter."

Dice stares at him. "Wha-- really?"

Their ramen arrives. Gentaro separates his disposable chopsticks with a clean, sharp _snap_. "That was just a lie. If I remember correctly, I'm the one who saved you."

"Tch, fine, you're right." Dice slurps at his ramen, wolfing down a slice of chashu. "What was it, then?" he asks with his mouth full, a sliver of bamboo shoot sticking out between his teeth. "Why did you say yes? You could always have told me to get stuffed, or left me to go find another partner. Guy like you, who knows a fair bit about the game ... you coulda gotten together with, I dunno, someone else. Someone who has a better idea of what they're doing, someone who didn't need saving. Why did you choose me?"

"Hmm, I wonder." Gentaro winds noodles onto his spoon. "No reason, really."

Not to be deterred, Dice presses on. "Listen, I dunno if you know this, since you're a fancy author and all who probably stays cooped up all day long in your study and writes all sorts of pretty fantasies in your ideal make-believe world, but the real world's a bit different. People don't do things for no reason, nobody does things if it doesn't benefit them in some way. Everyone's always out for somethin'. There's always a catch."

"My, my ... are you lecturing me?" Gentaro asks. "On the human condition?" When Dice doesn't reply, he shakes his head. "You said you read some of my works. Clearly not all of them, then."

"Anyway, whatever, man, your books aren't the point!" Dice says and resumes shovelling ramen into his mouth. "My point is, what's in it for you?"

Gentaro sets his chopsticks on the edge of his bowl, watching Dice eat. If he has to be completely honest, he's not entirely certain, himself. Had he wanted to play strategically, he would have made a pact with a more capable player -- Busujima Mason Riou, for instance, would've been far more useful as far as battling noise was concerned; meanwhile, Jinguji Jakurai would've been ideal when it came to solving the problems the Game Master posed. It is really is too bad that the good doctor is off-limits to Gentaro; he's the only player Gentaro was expressly forbidden to make a pact with.

Dice finishes his ramen, fishing out the last few scraps of bamboo shoot from the bottom of his bowl. The egg, he's left for last; as Gentaro watches, he gently pokes at it with his chopsticks, puncturing the yolk.

Though his human years seem so faraway and removed from who and what he is currently -- Gentaro remembers he used to have a friend, a long time ago. They used to go for ramen together after school -- always the same place, each time. Gentaro never minded; he has fond memories of the days spent studying in cafes or going to batting cages if they didn't have cram school to attend. However, those idyllic afternoons weren't long-lived; he supposes all good things had to come to an end.

Gentaro fishes out the egg from his own bowl and drops it into Dice's spoon. His middle-school friend had always liked leaving the egg for last, too.

Dice blinks first at the egg, then at Gentaro, mouth agape. "Huh? Don't you want that? It's like the best part, all soft and runny inside! Sooo satisfying, y'know?"

"Hmm." Gentaro pushes his bowl away. "I wasn't that hungry."

"Wait." Dice narrows his eyes, chopsticks hovering over his bowl. "Are you gonna make me feel bad for eating your food later, by telling me you were just lying about not being hungry? Or ... or did you lose your appetite because I was asking you too many questions or somethin'? Whatever, man, I wasn't really expecting an answer. I just think you're being kinda naive about all this. I don't want you thinking I'm tryna take advantage of you, or something."

"Me. Naive," Gentaro repeats, deadpan. "Don't be ridiculous, Dice. If you have time to make up wild theories like that, I'm sure your brain is well-prepared for whatever riddles the Game Master throws at us as part of today's mission. Do hurry up and finish your food." As if on cue, his phone buzzes in his pocket; he fishes it out, reading the message displayed on the screen. "Ah, speak of the devil. The Game Master has just issued the new mission for today."

"Oh yeah?" Attention diverted, Dice checks his phone as well, almost dropping it into the dregs of his ramen broth. "Argh! Wait, what in the fresh hell is this?"

The text on-screen is longer than any of the other missions they have gotten so far for the preceding days. Just as promised, Juto followed through on his promise to issue Gentaro's mission.

> _The Conductor is a strange liar. He lies on six days of the week, but on the seventh day he always tells the truth. He makes the following statements on successive days:_
> 
> _Day 1: I lie on Monday and Tuesday._
> 
> _Day 2: Today it's Thursday, Saturday, or Sunday._
> 
> _Day 3: I lie on Wednesday and Friday._
> 
> _Day 4: your mission today is to find out when the Conductor tells the truth._
> 
> _With today's twist in the mission, comes a twist in the rules: the first pair to fulfil the requirements will guarantee safety to the rest of the players._
> 
> _You have 60 minutes. Fail, and face erasure._

Well, the last part isn't exactly part of the script. Gentaro pockets his phone, smiling; opposite him, Dice scrolls furiously through his phone, food forgotten.

Gentaro's phone hums again -- this time, a message from the Composer. The first message only consists of a single emoji:

> _ᕕ(⁰ω^)◜〜✧˖°_
> 
> _Hehe, was this your idea? Gentaro, you're so funny! You're so self-aware!_

"This is bullshit!" Dice wails, hands fisted in his hair. "What kinda bullshit mission is this? What does it even mean? It doesn't even tell us to do anything, or go anywhere. What's the point? And just how the hell are we supposed to know when this Conductor bastard tells the truth?! We don't even know who the Conductor is!"

"I'm sure more details will be released once the mission is complete," Gentaro replies. Perhaps if no other players have found the answer by the time the hour is nearly up, he will have to take matters into his own hands. Dice slumps against the tabletop, face in his hands and making a whole range of unhappy noises. Gentaro rises to his feet. "Well then. Shall we?"

.

"Listen ... listen, okay. A clue is right there." Dice paces back and forth, counting on his fingers. "If the first day was a lie, then he can't also have lied the second day ... wait ... if the third day was a lie ... argh!" He sits down heavily on the kerb, groaning. "This is fucked up! This is bullshit! I can't believe we're all gonna die over this! What the hell! What the shit!"

All of a sudden, he turns his head sharply to stare at Gentaro, then looks back at the mission brief. He repeats the motion several times. "Hey, Gentaro, you ... you won't happen to know the answer for this, would you?"

Gentaro blinks, raising his eyebrows. "What? Me? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"It's just that ... um ... well ..." Dice fumbles, trying to string the words together. "Um ... how should I say this. You like to lie a lot, and ... this sounds an awful lot like you."

"Why are you looking at me, Dice?" Gentaro folds his arms, taking care not to crease his clothes. "I'm as confused by the implication of the mission as you are. I, too, have no idea where or how to begin with this. I may not look it, but I am actually extremely, critically worried. The fact that you are levelling such accusations at me is, frankly, rather hurtful, and is only adding to my anxiety and unease."

Dice stares at him, open-mouthed, pointed finger drooping slightly. "Um, er, well, that's. Yeah, okay, fine, you're right."

Defeated, he scrolls through his phone again -- then jumps to his feet. "Wait! I've got it! Look!" He brandishes the screen at Gentaro; his hand is shaking so much that Gentaro has to strain to read the words on the small display. "Look, look!" Dice practically yells, shoving the screen further towards Gentaro's face. "It says here, it says today is Thursday, Saturday, or Sunday. Today is Thursday, right? That means this Conductor guy's telling the truth, and that's it, we've solved the puzzle!"

Gentaro stares at him, bemused. Dice is breathing hard now -- both from excitement, as well as the exertion of yelling his entire deduction in one breath. He jabs at the sky, pointing at nothing in particular. "Hey! Game Master! Evil four-eyes! I did it, I solved your bullshit mission! The Conductor tells the truth on Thursday! Mission's over! Hey, why's the timer still going?"

"Hehehe, you're so silly," a familiar voice says by Gentaro's shoulder. He turns; Amemura Ramuda and his partner are standing some distance away -- regarding Dice with slightly different expressions. Ramuda is smiling, a broad grin that stretches across his face; Jakurai just looks bemused.

Dice glances sharply over his shoulder. "You guys can thank me! I saved us all!"

"Unfortunately, I don't think that's the case." Jakurai holds up his hand, showing Dice the countdown still marked on his palm. "The timer's still there."

"Argh!" Dice crouches down on the ground, head in his hands. "This is hopeless! This is useless! What the hell, this is not how I wanted to die for good, erased by some shitty bullshit riddle!"

Gentaro looks away; to a casual observer, it would seem as though the sight of his partner's breakdown is too much for him to bear. Ramuda sidles closer, and pokes him in the ribs. "Heeeey, now you're just being mean. Try not to laugh too much!"

"What?" Dice lifts his head slightly, surveying Gentaro with a hangdog expression. "The hell's wrong with you? Have you lost it so much that you can't even manage the right reactions now?"

"Yes," Gentaro murmurs into his sleeve and trying to hide his smile. "That is exactly it."

"Oh, man," Dice moans, rubbing the heels of his hands against his forehead. "Oh god, we're doomed. My partner has finally lost his marbles, and I officially give up."

"Now, now." Jakurai remains where he'd been standing, gazing into the traffic. "Let us not lose sight of ourselves or our goal. Calm yourself, Dice-kun; perhaps between all of us, we can solve the riddle." He squats on his haunches beside Dice, resting a hand on the younger player's shoulder. "Come now," he says, his voice quiet and kind. "Four heads are better than one. You know, you mustn't be so negative." He pats Dice on the shoulder, and leads him away from the edge of the sidewalk. "Let us think calmly about this. It'll be easier to figure out the answer, if we keep our heads and wits clear."

"Hey now, Dice, that's just unfair." Ramuda crosses his arms, looking between Jakurai and Dice. Without warning, he jumps up, slinging his arm around Gentaro's neck. Gentaro splutters, surprised, bending quickly to avoid a potential neck injury; Ramuda tugs him close, pointing at Dice. "If you're gonna steal my partner, I guess I'll steal yours!"

Dice's yelps. "Gentaro, no! Run!"

"Aww, calm down, it'll just be for this mission! I'll give Gentaro back right after, I promise! Though ... you know what, let's add some stakes to this, yeah?" Ramuda pauses. When nobody replies, he claps his hands together, pleased. "No objectitons. Great! So how 'bout this? Let's make a bet. Let's see who can solve this riddle faster: you and Jakurai, or me and Gentaro."

" _Gentaro and I_ ," Gentaro corrects; Ramuda pretends not to hear him.

"So, does that sound good? Loser will fork over whatever the winner wants." Ramuda smiles, catlike. "We got a deal?"

"You gonna keep your word on that?" Dice asks, straightening slightly; his voice is sharper now, calmer and more level than Gentaro has heard him before.

Ramuda places a hand over his chest. "Cross my heart and hope to die! Stick a needle in my eye!"

"There will be no needle-sticking," Jakurai says, firmly.

"Boo, fine, then." Ramuda pauses for a moment, thoughtful. Then, he extends the arm not slung over Gentaro's shoulders. "All righty then, how about we pinky swear on it, Dice?"

"Yeah, you're totally on. It's a deal," Dice replies and grins, showing his teeth. He holds out his hand, for Ramuda to link their fingers together "Don't come crying to me when I win, yeah?"

Ramuda winks, and drags Gentaro to the opposite side of the street. Only then does he finally release Gentaro from his headlock before rummaging in his pockets, producing a mini chocolate bar. He rips the packaging and takes a bite out of the chocolate, not bothering to break up the sections. "So, got any ideas, Gentaro?"

Gentaro rubs his neck. "Your guess is as good as mine."

"Hmmm, I dunno, in that case I'd say my guess is pretty darn good, then!" Ramuda laughs to himself, spinning on his heels in a large, lazy circle. The end of his belt swings out; Gentaro steps out of the way before the ornate buckle can hit him across the shins.

"Why don't you answer, then?"

"Hmmm," Ramuda says again. "Because it won't be fun!"

"Fun," Gentaro repeats flatly. "Is this really all just a game to you?"

"Who knows!" Ramuda takes another bite of chocolate. "Mm, this new flavour's nice. You should try it sometime!"

Gentaro suppresses a smile. He can faintly hear the sound of Jakurai and Dice's voices from the other side of the street, as the former starts outlining what they know about the riddle. "Say, Ramuda. You said your guesses are pretty good. What do you think the answer is?"

Ramuda takes a step back, mouth rounding slightly in surprise; this, too, gives way to a small and sly smile. "Oh! Oh, I didn't think you were that kinda person, Gentaro!"

"Hm?"

"The kind of person who would dig around for information, and then turn around and claim all the glory! You're totally gonna betray me and tell Dice the answer, aren't you?" Ramuda pouts, pushing his bottom lip out. "You're such a meanie, Gentaro!"

"Is that the kind of person you take me for?" Gentaro asks. Then, more quietly, he adds, "I just want to know how different people see the same problem, that's all. I'll tell you my answer, if you tell me yours."

"Hmm, not good enough." Ramuda nibbles at the end of his chocolate, considering. "You won't tell Dice?"

"I won't tell Dice."

"Okay, then! Let's see." Ramuda licks crumbs of chocolate wafer off his fingers, then crumples up the empty wrapper. "Two answers, then. First answer: I think that the Conductor never tells the truth. Now, before you tell me stuff like, ' _oh, that can't be the answer, that's not how you solve a logic puzzle like this_ ', hear me out, hear me out!" Ramuda squeezes his eyes shut and claps his hands together when he talks, then opens one eye to peek at Gentaro. Satisfied that he won't be interrupted, he straightens. "Now, when we got this mission, I said to myself, ' _hmm, why do people lie_ '? And then I thought, hmmmm, well, people lie when the truth isn't nice! People lie, because they'd rather live a pretty and pleasant lie, than an ugly and inconvenient truth! And then, over time, they start being unable to distinguish between the reality of the truth, and the reality they see in a lie. It can start as a tiiiiny little lie -- a lie to give other people a tiiiiny little bit of hope, for instance -- but then before long, that lie can become their entire reality."

Gentaro laughs under his breath. "That's a very interesting theory, Ramuda."

Ramuda hums, pleased. "But y'know, I've always wondered. I've thought about it quite a lot, actually! Do you know what the most terrifying lie is?"

For a moment, Gentaro glances over his shoulder. Jakurai is nodding, eyes closed, as Dice sounds out haphazard theories and answers, trying to chance upon the most correct-sounding one. "No," Gentaro replies. "Do tell."

Ramuda raises a finger. "The single most terrifying lie is the lie that deceives your own self -- and that would be what some call a curse."

"A curse?" Gentaro laughs. "That's an awfully melodramatic way of putting things, isn't it?"

Ramuda laughs along with him. "It makes sense! Think about it. A lie that becomes your reality, until you can no longer escape from it, until you can no longer live without it -- isn't that the same thing as a curse? As the lies and curses keep on piling up, though, something -- or someone -- will break eventually. Like, kaboom!" Ramuda throws out his hands in a careless and expansive motion; Gentaro doesn't quite flinch. "Just like that! Poof!"

Gentaro smiles. "Just like that, huh."

"Uh-huh." Ramuda rocks back and forth on his heels, watching Gentaro's face. "So? So? How was it? How was my theory? Is it cool? Is it smart? Is it awesome?"

"It is pretty cool, and smart, and awesome."

"Yay!" Ramuda does a little jump, fingers held aloft in a victory sign. "The cool and philosophical writer Yumeno Gentaro praised me and said I sounded cool and smart and awesome! Yahoo! D'you think maybe one day, I can write something as cool as your latest series? Something that makes people think, something that makes them afraid of their own thoughts, something that examines the ugliness of the human condition?"

Gentaro smiles, not quite meeting Ramuda's eyes. "Of course. I think you can do anything you put your mind to, Ramuda."

The answer seems to please Ramuda. He bursts out laughing, throwing his arms in the air. "Yay! I'll try to write something cool and deep and meaningful and awesome and totally horrifying, then! Just you wait!"

"Yes. You go do that. But, Ramuda ..." Gentaro waits until Ramuda has stopped bouncing around, thrilled by his own deductions. "You said you had two answers. What's the other one?"

"Aw, whaaaat?" Ramuda comes to a stop, belt buckle smacking against his calves. "That's no fair! How come I give you such a long and totally awesomely cool answer, and you won't even tell me yours! That's pretty mean of you, y'know!"

Dice interrupts them then, shouting across the street. "Hey, are you two just standin' there and yapping about the weather, or are you actually trying to come up with some ideas? We got less than five minutes, and if you're not careful I'm gonna solve it first!" Despite the bluster and bravado of his words, there is a faint note of panic in his voice, an undercurrent of fear hanging at the back of every word.

"Personally ..." Gentaro ignores Dice and folds his arms, tucking his hands into his sleeves. "I don't think the Conductor lies all the time."

"Oh. _Ohh_. Ooh!" Ramuda's eyes widen. "Wow, that's suuuper controversial! ... what makes you say that?"

"Lies may be someone's reality, but no flower blooms and flourishes without a root to support it. And in this case, that root would be ... hm, I wonder. A trusting heart, perhaps?"

"Perhaps," Ramuda echoes cheerily. "You're so poetic, Gentaro! Ahaha, just what you'd expect from a critically-acclaimed writer!"

"Personally, I think that the Conductor doesn't lie all the time, because in order to keep that trusting heart continuing to believe his lies, he has to slip the truth in somewhere, sometimes. But the truth has to be handled with care -- more care than anyone can ever imagine."

Ramuda frowns, affecting a theatrical thinking pose. He furrows his brow, as though deep in concentration. "What are you trying to say? Is that your answer? That the Conductor lies most of the time, but not always? That's just the same as the riddle, isn't it? Ahaha, Gentaro, you're so silly!"

Gentaro smiles back, just as the timer on his palm stings sharply; when he checks it, the numbers are scarred a harsh and angry red on his skin.

"Ooh," Ramuda says, inspecting his timer as well. "Two minutes left! Wow, we sure wasted a lot of time not answering the question, huh?"

Behind them, Dice makes a strangled exclamation. "Guys! Hey, you two! Oh shit, oh god, I think I got it! I think I have the answer! The answer is--"

Not taking his eyes off Gentaro, Ramuda smiles; it's an almost devilish expression. He's pointing at something over Gentaro's shoulder; slowly, he turns his hand, thumb and forefinger forming the shape of a makeshift pistol. When Gentaro looks over his shoulder, there is nothing there but skyscrapers and office towers, stretching as far as the eye can see. "Tuesday," Ramuda says loudly, and snaps his fingers together. "The Conductor tells the truth on Tuesdays."

On the other side of the road, Dice splutters audibly. "Wha? Huh? How d'you know?"

Ramuda winks. "Hm, I dunno. Lucky guess!" He meets Gentaro's eyes and sticks out his tongue. "You know, maybe you could really learn some tips and tricks from Dice! One of the rules of gambling is to not play your best card so early, so you can wait and see what other hands everyone else has got!" His voice lowers, so soft Gentaro almost doesn't hear him. "And if you don't have another cards to play ... you can always lie."

Before Gentaro can reply, Ramuda skips past him and crosses the road, deftly dodging past other pedestrians at the crossing. Gentaro watches him go; once on the other side, Ramuda bounces around Jakurai and Dice, pulling faces while the latter makes half-hearted swipes at him.

"A lucky guess?" Dice all but yowls, voice breaking a little at the word lucky; Ramuda ducks past his outstretched hands, laughing to himself. "A lucky guess?! Speak for yourself!"

Gentaro's phone chimes, a quiet notification; the others' phones join in with their own message alerts. When Gentaro takes his phone to check the message, he notes the timer on his hand has disappeared.

> _Congratulations for completing today's mission objective._
> 
> _Rejoice in the knowledge that erasure was not actually going to be a consequence of finishing this mission._
> 
> _... that was just a lie._

Well, that is interesting. Gentaro chuckles as he shuts off his phone display; he doesn't remember telling Juto to include the last line. Before he can put his phone away, the screen lights up again with another incoming message.

> _As a reward, the wall barring access to easy R's flagship Shibuya store will be removed -- but only to the players who provided the answer to today's mission._

Gentaro meets Dice's eyes; Dice's jaw drops open. Ramuda is the first to break the silence. "Wow, that's a pretty cool reward!"

"Players ... _players_ ," Dice repeats. " _Players_ , plural. Does that mean us, too?" He turns hopefully towards Gentaro, eyes wide. "Y'think--"

Gentaro sighs, gently rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I doubt it. We weren't the ones that gave the answer. I'm afraid that we are, as you would say, 'shit out of luck'."

"But I was inofficially partnered with Doc!" Dice gestures wildly at Jakurai, who just looks apologetic. "Does that mean I win indirectly, too? And by extension, you do as well?"

"Nuh-uh!" Ramuda shakes his index finger like an adult reprimanding a recalcitrant child. He hooks one arm through Jakurai's, dragging him closer. "You can't just bend the rules whenever you like, or interpret things however you like! Where's your honour as a gambler?"

"Augh," Dice says and slumps, defeated. "Fine, you win. I have some pride, after all." He throws his hands up in the air, palms upturned. "So, what d'you want from us?"

"What do I want-- oh!" Ramuda bumps the top of his head gently. "Duh, silly me, I'm so forgetful ... right, right, I did win our little wager. Hmm, let's see ..." He meets Gentaro's eyes and grins. Gentaro frowns back; he's starting to get a bad feeling about this.

"Ramuda-kun," Jakurai says. "Let it go. You've already won; there is no need to brandish it in their faces." To Dice, he adds, "I would advise you against encouraging him, Dice-kun."

"Ah-hah, I got it!" Ramuda ignores Jakurai and extends his hand towards Gentaro, wiggling his fingers. "Pwease give me your cwedit card, Gentawo! I pwomise to make sure to go on a super big shopping spwee at easy R's shop in your honour! Oh, and Dice's too, I guess," he adds, almost as an afterthought.

"Ramuda-kun," Jakurai repeats, exasperated. "You are _not_ extorting other players."

"But Jakurai, is it really extortion when we won the bet, fair and square?" Ramuda turns to Jakurai, eyes wide and beseeching. "We all agreed to this! And I got the right answer! See, everything's nice and fair and squeaky-clean, nothing shady going on at all, nope!"

Gentaro clears his throat. "You cannot be serious, Ramuda."

"Hmm, lemme think-- nope, I'm pretty serious!" Ramuda rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, one hand outstretched; the other, the other still linked with Jakurai's. "C'mon, you heard Dice! Where's your honour and pride in upholding your end of a wager? The least you can do is buy us a little something! I promise not to spend all your money! Just a little bit. A teeny, tiny little bit." He holds up his hand, thumb and forefinger almost touching. "Like, this much! Just a teeny, tiny little fraction of all the royalties you get from your book sales!"

Feeling Dice's eyes on him, Gentaro groans inwardly and extricates his wallet. "Very well," he says, smiling at Ramuda; Ramuda smiles back with just as much sincerity. "Don't let it be said that I renege on deals."

"Yay, thankies!" Ramuda holds the card aloft. "Gentaro's payment details, get! C'mon, no time to waste." He tugs at Jakurai's arm, pointing towards the end of the street. "Aaaand ... let's go!"

"Hey, wait!" Dice barks, and takes off in hot pursuit. Left alone in the middle of the street, Gentaro watches them go. Somewhere in the city, he knows Juto is laughing at him.

Well, let him have his fun. Gentaro sets off at a slow and leisurely pace after Ramuda, Jakurai, and Dice. It's not every day that somebody gets the upper hand on the Conductor of Tokyo, after all.

.

Two hours and a phone call later, Gentaro is distinctly less inclined to let Juto have his fun ever again. Following the map on his phone, he traces a path to an inoffensive enough address somewhere past Takeshita Street. It's packed with people; he passes by an arcade with teenagers spilling out through the entrance -- schoolgirls clamour around tables trying to decide which props to bring with them into purikura booths; boys feed coins into UFO and claw games in a bid to win prizes for their girlfriends; if Gentaro cranes his neck to see past the crowd, he can just about make out groups of older, college-age students deeper within the arcade, busy duelling one another in fighting tournaments, racing simulators, or dance-offs. He lingers a little along that stretch of shops -- even now, the youthful enthusiasm is infectious. The memories of his own childhood and adolescence seem so distant and faded, like a worn-out photograph that's been folded and unfolded too many times; he doesn't remember indulging in the same pastimes as the youth these days do. When he thinks about it, he can't even remember how long it's been since he ascended to Conductor, let alone when he first became a reaper.

He gives himself a little shake. This is no time to be idling and dawdling; he's a man on a mission, a reaper with an agenda. Many twists and turns later, and he finds himself at the doorstep of a large novelty cafe -- and lurking under the awning is his partner clad in boxers -- and little much else.

Gentaro gazes skyward for a brief moment, squeezing his eyes shut. Perhaps this is the Producer's own form of retribution, no matter how indirect. Perhaps she has a sense of humour after all. Well, it could be worse. He can put up with a little bit of inconvenience.

He suppresses a sigh. "Dice," he says, and slowly opens his eyes -- not that the scene in front of him would magically have changed, as much as he wills it to. No -- everything is still the same: he's standing in front of a novelty cafe in Harajuku that looks like an explosion of cutesy-meets-grotesque decor; his partner in the Reapers' Game and possible human disaster incarnate is wearing nothing but his underwear and a hopeful smile. The sun is shining and the birds are singing and he, Yumeno Gentaro, is reconsidering all his life and actions that have led up to his point. He's not entirely sure how this entire charade began in the first place -- perhaps he'd go so far as to say that everything started when the Composer loudly declared his ennui at the current state of Tokyo, and proposed a twist on the Game. Well, it's Gentaro's own fault for playing along with the Composer's capricious whims; every single misfortune that has befallen him so far can correlate its cause to the Composer's wager. With that in mind, Gentaro considers it a miracle that he hasn't been faced with more serious repercussions -- especially from the Producer, whom he knows would be keeping watch on the proceedings in the Underground. Perhaps she's just biding her time? Exacting her judgement on him in microcosm, with each and every mishap his partner goes through? That seems more apt and in line with her style.

"Dice," Gentaro says, very slowly. "How many times must I tell you? You need to stop trying to gamble what meagre possessions you have at any given opportunity."

Dice pulls a hangdog expression. "You don't understand," he says, almost sulky. "It's not like we can afford the cooler equipment and stuff, I thought I'd try to win us some."

"That's ..." Gentaro stops, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's most kind that you're looking out for our welfare and trying to procure superior equipment, but we're managing fine without the best and the latest."

"Yeah, but y'know what'd be cooler? If we had some of easy R's stuff. The boosts you get from wearing them in Shibuya are outta this world. We'd have a much easier time against all the noise!"

Gentaro folds his arms. "Battling noise is not the only aspect of our daily missions. That aside ... where are your clothes?" The question is just a formality at this point; he has an inkling as to the current location of Dice's possessions. "Did you ... play strip poker? Was losing the majority of our monetary resources to Ramuda not enough for you?"

"Well. Funny story, that." Dice gets to his feet, slinging one arm over Gentaro's shoulder. "So as we both know, I don't get any money and you handle all our budgeting and finances--"

"For good reason. I am not having you gamble away our already limited funds, Dice."

 

Dice makes a disparaging noise. "But why?" he asks, as though Gentaro really, seriously needs to answer him. "Why, man? You gotta live a little, Gentaro! No guts, no glory! You only win big if you take some risks. It's all about that adrenaline high, man. Watching the roll of the dice, or the dance of the numbers on the screen ... fighting off a pair of mosh grizzlies as they push you into a corner ... you gotta let your blood sing a little, Gentaro, you gotta get that heart pumping!"

"I'd rather not, if that's all the same to you."

"Anyway," Dice says loudly before Gentaro can even finish talking, "so since I didn't have any money, and since you _also_ don't have any money after Ramuda took your card, I thought I'd take a gamble, make some bets for some new stuff."

Gentaro has a very bad and sinking feeling about this. "And ... who was the person just ... hm, eccentric enough to take you up on that harebrained scheme?"

"Ramuda, of course!" Dice looks unreasonably pleased with himself. "Jakurai wanted to trade with me right away, but where's the fun in that? Ramuda said the same thing too, he's pretty cool. Y'know, I kinda like him, even if he's kinda ... I dunno. Like that. He's was pretty cool this morning, too. Calmly working out the answer and all that."

"Of course you'd think he's cool," Gentaro says, disparaging. "He agreed to gamble with you. Anybody who agrees to a wager with you is cool in your eyes."

Dice waggles a finger. "Point. You got me."

"So? What was he offering?"

"Threads," Dice breathes into Gentaro's ear, barely able to contain his excitement. "From easy R's new streetwear collection! They only just got released for to the general public today, and Ramuda didn't waste time in getting the limited edition stuff! How cool of him is that, to wager sick stuff like that? Like, he won the bet fair and square and all, but he was still willing to put it on the line because that shit's fun. That's so awesome. Anyway, I took him up on the offer, of course. I mean, why not? Seemed like a pretty fair arrangement -- so naturally, we both put our clothes on the line."

Gentaro resists the urge to heave another long-suffering and protracted sigh. "And owning nothing more but the clothes on your back ... that's exactly what you bet. Dice. Do you feel like you were taken advantage of? Did you ever stop to consider how the odds were stacked against you? Ramuda didn't even have to bet his own clothes that he was wearing, and it never occurred to you that you might lose?"

Dice grins widely and flaps a hand, dismissive. "Nah, not one bit. Look, I know I get bad streaks of luck sometimes--"

"You mean, all the time," Gentaro says, to disguise the small pinprick of guilt he feels. Holding the title of Conductor is a lofty responsibility; he knows just what players had to forsake, in order to have the chance to participate in the Game. For many people, the most common entry fee is their memories -- of themselves, of their pasts, of the people near and dear to them, of their hopes and dreams. Gentaro has never relished the way he's come to be the memory-keeper of Tokyo, custodian to many a fallen player's ties to the Realground. In the end, memories are what makes people what they are; in the end, people are but the sum of their experiences and deeds in life, and the way they have spent that time. Sometimes, it's almost too much to bear.

In Dice's case, his entrance fee is a marginally less harrowing burden to shoulder. In Dice's case, all he's forsaken is his luck -- each and every scrap of it. Gentaro frowns as he stares at Dice, not quite listening to what the other man is saying. Perhaps this, too, is karma in its own way -- he's responsible for Dice losing every shred of his luck, and in return, he has to watch over Dice for ... for how long?

Blissfully oblivious to Gentaro's inner musings, Dice is still rambling as though trying to convince both Gentaro, as well as himself. "--but, man, nothing lasts forever, ya dig, so I'm bound to get a break soon! So I gotta keep going, y'know? Because who knows? Maybe my luck will just turn around like _that_ \--" Dice snaps his fingers, "so I gotta go for that chance, no matter how slight."

"That, Dice, is called a sunk-cost fallacy. However, I wouldn't say that's the first and only fallacy you operate under."

Dice blinks at him, uncomprehending. "Hu--wha?"

"Sunk-cost fallacy. Hot hand fallacy. Monte Carlo fallacy."

"Oh, Monte Carlo," Dice repeats, eyes momentarily unfocusing as his mind is doubtless filled with the luxury and opulence of the distant casino, with its blackjack and poker tables, its slot machines, its roulette tables and baccarat stations. "Ohh man, I've always wanted to go there ... y'know what? That does it."

"Does what?" Gentaro asks, even though he knows perfectly well what train of thought his partner is embarking on.

"First thing, when I get outta this game ... I'm gonna do it, man. I'm gonna buy myself a ticket to Monaco and hit up that bigass casino," Dice says, a faraway expression in his eyes. Attention suddenly sharpening, he grabs hold of Gentaro by the shoulders, his expression deadly serious. "That's why ... that's why I've decided. I'm gonna try my best and put in my best effort to get through this and win the Reapers' Game. And in order to do that ..." His grip on Gentaro's shoulders tighten. "I need the best gear. And in order to do that ..." This time when he trails off again, he casts Gentaro a significant look that's doubtless meant to be heavy with meaning and implication. "I need to gamble."

"Gamble. For clothes. Because you have nothing else to offer in a bet," Gentaro says, deadpan.

Dice winks at him and clicks his tongue. "You're on the money! Like I said, Gentaro, you gotta live a little. And just a little secret, but you're not gonna win anything if you're afraid of putting whatever you have on the line. All your money, or your life ... or even all your clothes, in this case."

"You are incorrigible. And why did you call me here?"

"We're partners, aren't we?" Dice's voice changes as he edges closer, arm tightening around Gentaro's shoulders. "And partners have each other's backs, right?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Sooo ..." Dice claps his hands together, a loud smack that's almost audible over the bustle of pedestrians and traffic in the background -- and then reaches out to grab both of Gentaro's hands, as though afraid he would attempt escape. "Please lend me some money!"

Ah. There it is. Gentaro extricates himself from Dice's grip and fishes out his wallet. "I feel like it's pointless to say I guessed as much. Well then, how much do you need?"

"Um." Dice eyes Gentaro's wallet fixedly. Gentaro withdraws a few notes and holds them out, just a little. "I don't know, actually, but if you give me the money, I should be able to win back--"

Gentaro keeps a firm grip on the notes. "No," he says and jerks his hand back before Dice can make a grab for the money. "I'll settle this. I'd much rather you keep your underwear on, at the very least; I have no desire to see you get evicted from the premises for, heaven forbid, flashing. You wait out here."

Dice makes an unhappy sound but complies, slouching against the exterior wall. For the first time, Gentaro is thankful that players of the Reapers' Game can't be seen by most people in the Realground; he has no burning desire to be caught out in public with his half-naked companion. That said, it'd be just his luck for Juto to come wandering by, partly under pretense of scoping out more coffee shops and partly to watch Gentaro struggle with his partner. Though Juto was -- and still is, really -- far from a moral and upstanding policeman, Gentaro is highly certain Juto will write Dice -- and Gentaro himself no doubt -- up for a misdemeanour at best, and indecent exposure at worst. The prospect isn't entirely thrilling; he's certain Yokohama's most senior reaper officer will greatly relish any and every chance to one-up him.

"Ah ... actually." Dice perks up at the sound of Gentaro's voice. He looks up from his phone, suddenly eager. "Actually," Gentaro continues, taking off his cape jacket. He tosses it at Dice; Dice catches it deftly and then frowns at it, as though expecting the garment to rear up and swallow him whole. "Put this on first. I don't want that Game Master to come by and find you like this." Gentaro clears his throat, adopting Juto's tone of voice. "You there, good-for-nothing without the clothes! Loitering outside the shop! You wanna get arrested? Depending on the quality of your excuses, I'll throw you into the pigpen to rot, or feed you to the alterna wolves."

Dice blanches, clutching Gentaro's cape tightly to his chest. He drapes it on over himself as best as he can, trying to rearrange the panels so the garment covers as much as possible. Gentaro raises his eyebrows at Dice's exposed legs; Dice immediately sinks down to his haunches, fiddling with the cape. "Okay, okay, fine! Just, argh, hurry up and get my clothes back! Please!" he adds, when Gentaro stays motionless.

Satisfied that Dice has covered as much of himself as is humanely possible, Gentaro nods, approving. "Thank you for your cooperation," he says, taking care to keep the mocking, insouciant edge of Juto's voice. Then, more normally, he adds, "please try to stay out of trouble."

With a final glance towards Dice -- now loitering, if possible, even more suspiciously -- Gentaro shakes his head and enters the shop.

 

If he thought the exterior obnoxious enough, it pales in comparison to the inside; nothing could have prepared Gentaro for the sight that greets his eyes -- the place is loud and over-the-top, outlandish in its concept and decoration. He waves off the garishly-dressed staff that greet him; mercifully, they accept his insistence that he's just there to look for someone.

Jakurai is seated in the cafe area and looking vaguely uncomfortable amidst the technicolour explosion of larger-than-life confectionery-shaped fixtures; sitting across the table from him and with an array of shopping bags on the spare chairs, Ramuda is halfway through the gleeful demolishing of a gigantic rainbow-coloured parfait. He's wearing Dice's parka, the hood drawn over his head; the fur trim is dark against his hair. The sleeves are too long for him; one flops over hand, while the other is rolled up to his elbow so it won't get in the way of his eating.

Gentaro nods at the duo. "Good afternoon."

"Oh, hi, hi, Gentaro!" Ramuda pats the back of the empty chair between him and Jakurai. "Long time no see!"

"Yes, it has been ..." Gentaro checks his watch, "... a little over two hours since we last met."

"Psh, who's counting? Anyway, have a seat! It's so nice of you to join us, I thought maybe you'd have been a little bit upset over losing the bet." Ramuda watches him through half-lidded eyes, smiling as though what he's said is of great hilarity. "Soooo since you're here and we're all totally cool with each other, how about a little gesture of good faith! Would you like anything? You're paying, of course," he adds and flashes a toothy grin; Gentaro catches a brief glimpse of his credit card in Ramuda's hand.

"Pardon my intrusion," Gentaro says and sits. "I'm ..." He eyeballs the food the pair have arrayed in front of them -- the colourful pasta, the chicken with a slab of chocolate to the side -- and shakes his head. "I'm fine, thank you. Please, carry on."

Jakurai looks carefully at him. "I take it you're not here for a social call."

"No, I'm afraid not." Gentaro folds his hands before him. "I apologise for the bluntness, but I'm afraid the issue is slightly dire." He glances between Jakurai and Ramuda; the former does not even look surprised while the latter grins, expectant. "... my partner's clothes. I'd like to buy them back, please."

Ramuda laughs at that. "Whaaat, but that's so boring, Gentaro! Where's the fun in that?"

"I'm a little risk-adverse." Gentaro leans forward slightly, hands splayed gently over his corner of the table. "I'm sure we can reach a happy compromise."

"Boo." Ramuda pouts, a little. "I even gave him a great deal! I mean, easy R's stuff doesn't come cheap, you know, and Dice didn't exactly have anything of equivalent value. You guys would've stood to benefit massively from my generosity! I even bought him food!"

Oh, god, food. Food and the promise of a good gamble -- in short, the two things that would be the surest way to capture Dice's attention, hook, line, and sinker. Gentaro frowns at Ramuda, "That may be, but in the end, he lost the bet. The game is over."

A strange look passes over Ramuda's face. He grins into his parfait, a small and crafty smile. "I wonder about that. Contrary to what you're saying ..." He plucks out a chocolate wafer stick from his parfait and bites into the end. "You'll find the game has only just begun!"

"I beg your pardon?" Gentaro asks, but Ramuda waves him off.

"Nothing, nothing! Just had a bit of toffee stuck in my teeth." Ramuda takes a swig from one of the drinks on the table -- a brightly-coloured concoction that almost looks poisonous.

Gentaro clears his throat. "Ramuda. I can't have my partner wandering around without clothes for the duration of the Game. I'm not asking for you to give them back for free -- I'm perfectly willing to pay. I'll also reimburse you for his meal."

"Hmmmm." Ramuda rubs his chin, making a show of being deep in thought. "Nope!"

"His clothes aren't going to fit either of you very well," Gentaro presses. Dice is almost neatly in between Jakurai and Ramuda in height; both would look patently ridiculous in his outfit, no matter how they choose to wear it. Ramuda shoots Gentaro a sidelong look.

"What're you talking about?" He hops out of the chair and stuffs his hands into the jacket pockets, doing a twirl. Dice's parka swishes around his legs; the hood comes askew with the motion, falling loose over his shoulders. "I think it fits me _juuuust_ right." He sticks up two fingers, in the shape of a peace sign, striking a pose remarkably reminiscent of the ones the teenagers at the arcade were practising before their turn in the purikura booth. "Whaddaya think, whaddaya think?"

"Ramuda-kun," Jakurai says at last, sounding tired. He rubs at the bridge of his nose. "Please return Dice-kun's belongings."

"What, you don't think I look great in this?" Ramuda slides one leg out slightly, adopting a showy pose. He's still holding his spoon; this, he flourishes like a baton. "Whatever, I think this looks perfect on me!"

"Yes, yes, it looks nice on you, Ramuda-kun. But I'm sure Dice-kun will appreciate it a lot more if you gave it back. He'll catch a cold otherwise, especially as the temperature continues to drop."

Ramuda sticks his tongue out, hands jammed deep into the jacket pockets. He wiggles his fingers, making the ends of the jacket flap about. "Hmm, that's a lame reasoning. He's dead! We're all dead here! I must say," he adds, "it makes it a nice change when I'm not the only one who's dead here."

Gentaro watches the exchange silently; he's privy to all the ways the many different players over the course of many different iterations of the Reapers' Game have died. Ramuda is no exception.

To his right, there's a sigh. Jakurai rubs at his temples and forehead. "Very well, Ramuda-kun, how about we do a compromise?"

That seems to pique Ramuda's attention. He turns towards Jakurai, regarding the other man smilingly. Jakurai sighs. "I'll eat whatever you buy me," he says at last, with an air of great defeat.

Ramuda sucks in a breath in a short gasp; he covers his mouth with both hands; Dice's jacket sleeves flop loosely, too long for Ramuda. "Even the parfaits and the crepes and the special limited edition candy?" he asks in hushed tones.

Jakurai breathes out a long, slow breath through his nose. " _Yes_ ," he says.

Perhaps Gentaro ought to demur on Jakurai's behalf. "You don't have to, doctor--"

"You're another boring one," Ramuda interrupts, licking at his spoon. He sets it down in the empty parfait glass, the metal clattering loudly against the sides. "Mr. Doctor here needs to ramp up his bravery through the roof if he wants to survive in the game! And that includes being bold enough to wear the best equipment and work it." He reaches out, tugging at the sleeve of Jakurai's white lab coat. "See, he's not as stylish as you, me, or ... hmm, Dice, I guess, so I was going to help him reinvent his image. But first, he needs to toughen up, and face his fears!"

"I am not afraid," Jakurai says testily.

Ramuda blows a raspberry. "Um, yeah, you totally are! If you're too afraid to eat some fun-looking food, what makes you think you'll be bold enough to go walking around in a totally cool and hip and stylish and fashionable and awesome new outfit?" As if to prove his point, he rearranges Dice's parka with a flourish, and strides up and down a gap between the cafe tables as though it's a catwalk. "See? You gotta learn to let go, old man, no more living in the past and wearing the same old uncool, untrendy, totally unfashionable things you do."

"These serve a function. I do not care for fashion."

"Oh, really?" Ramuda tugs at the front of Jakurai's jacket, pulling the tie out of its neat knot. "Fashion is king in Shibuya, you geezer! You know Darwin's evolutionary theory? Survival of the fittest? Well, I guess it's kinda the same idea here in the Underground, except it's survival of the trendiest. Ask Gentaro," he adds, ducking to the side to peer past Jakurai. "Gentaro knows all about that kinda stuff! Tell him, Gentaro!"

"I really have no idea--"

"Oh, of course you do!' Ramuda waves his hands, impatient. Dice's parka sleeves flap with the motion. "You're a writer, you knew how to influence people's minds and move their hearts! That's how you made so many bestsellers, right?"

Gentaro's no stranger to masking his emotions, to putting on a face; it's the only reason he can look Ramuda in the eye. "You make it sound like I am some great influencer. I'm sorry to disappoint, but I'm just a simple writer."

"Aww, Gentaro's really so humble! You're so upstanding, Gentaro, but there's no need to be shy! You can tell us, you know, about all your theories about the Underground." Ramuda nods, looking solemn. He grabs Jakurai's hand and holds it to his own chest. "We promise not to laugh! Cross my heart!"

"Fine. I suppose you're not entirely wrong about the nature of trends in the Underground." Gentaro clears his throat, considering. "In the Underground, imagination is power; it is where our subconscious takes flight. Those pins and psychs that we use are all powered by our ideals and imagination, and take shape according to our subconscious. Everything goes back to the subconscious. Or the collective unconsciousness, in the case of the Underground and how it intersects with the Realground."

Jakurai laughs, soft and tired. "I appreciate you playing along with Ramuda's ploy to get me to eat and wear things he deems 'trendy'."

Gentaro smiles. "He's not lying about that. Think about it, doctor. If everybody in Shibuya wears easy R's clothes, that's seen as the norm. Naturally they will be more powerful, precisely because they are so ingrained in the collective psyche of the people here. There is strength in numbers, and in people's convictions."

He's aware of the way Jakurai is looking at him -- eyes gazing squarely into his, the slightest of frowns creasing his brow. "You have some ... interesting theories, Why did you never share them with the rest of the players?"

"That's exactly what they are," Gentaro says smoothly. "Just theories and idle speculations of a bored -- and, sadly, rather dead -- novelist who no longer has a creative outlet to channel his thoughts and energies into. Nothing more, and nothing less."

Ramuda laughs, a sudden burst of sound amidst their silence. "See, there you have it! Gentaro's so smart. Almost as smart as you!" he adds, throwing himself back into his seat. "Tell you what, Gentaro, I'm in a super good mood now after hearing your super cool theory! It's like ... what was that again? Like in that story where the onee-san kept telling stories to the nasty king!" He leans closer, chin resting against his knuckles. "Sooo anyway, my point is, get ready for it ... Dice is off the hook!"

Gentaro breathes out a quiet sigh of relief. "That's very kind of you." He watches as Ramuda reaches towards the bags and tugs out Dice's clothes, dropping them onto Gentaro's lap -- the shirt and pants are folded neatly together, all the edges aligned; the belts are curled into a tidy coil on top. Ramuda hands over another bag; inside, Dice's socks are stuffed into his shoes. Finally, he sheds the parka, laying it dramatically across Gentaro's arms. "Thanks for the money, by the way! Your credit card's inside that pocket, but maaaybe you wanna put it away before you give that back to Dice."

"I trust everything is in order," Jakurai says. He's looking down at the table, fingers steepled together and forehead just resting against his hands. Ramuda flounces off, presumably to procure more sweets; Jakurai heaves a quiet sigh, refusing to meet Gentaro's eyes.

"Thank you for your help, doctor," Gentaro says very seriously as he gathers up Dice's belongings. "I will ensure that your noble sacrifice does not go in vain."

Jakurai inclines his head, just a little; despite his earlier words, there is a faint smile playing along the corners of his mouth. He doesn't meet Gentaro's eyes. "Thank you."

**Author's Note:**

> Hhhhelllooo.  
> How better to test the waters in a new fandom ~~and my first fanfic in like 3 years~~ than with ... self-indulgent crossovers and gratuitous headcanons ... cough.  
> Nghh p-please be gentle ...
> 
> Dedicated to my pal [Annette](http://mohshuvuu.tumblr.com), who continues to enable me into writing all sorts of wacky AU/crossover hijinks and shenanigans. Where would I be without you.
> 
> It's probably a mistake to tackle this during Nanowrimo but ... my buddy ... my pal ... this is the surest chance this fic has of ever getting finished -- or written, for that matter. [Stay tuned](http://quietspell.tumblr.com) [with me](http://twitter.com/beIImare) the entire month (and possibly longer, realistically speaking) as I moan and groan over wordcounts, deadlines, writing pressure, the incessant need to edit forever, and more!


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